Chasing Storms
by Leafenclaw
Summary: AU to episode 6.06 Fire and Brimstone. Jane's car dies on the road before he has a chance to leave Lisbon stranded – and it doesn't take long before they find themselves on the run, thrown in the midst of murder attempts and conspiracies as they attempt to find and defeat Red John.
1. Late

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** It's October already! As a NaNoWriMo enthusiast, I couldn't stand the wait and so here I am with a character/world study I hope will help me kick my November project's gears in place (which is Mentalist also). The challenge is as follow:  
\- One prompt a day, from today to October 31  
\- Has to write one chapter of minimum 500 words each day  
\- Each chapter has to be written on the fly, on the day of the prompt  
\- No chapter can be planned more than 24h in advance  
\- Only minimum editing can be made after publication (grammar, typos, sentences order to correct the flow, etc.)  
So without further ado, I present you...

* * *

 **Chapter 01 - Late**

They drive in silence.

As the sky's colours change from light blue to yellow, then from yellow to deep orange, and the tension only grows between them as they get closer to Jane's family house, the sudden spluttering and crashing of his old engine comes as an unwelcome surprise. For a hundred miles the car still works and everything seems fine – but then white smoke escapes with a hiss from under the hood and the car comes to a shuddering stop, right in the middle of the road.

With a muttered curse, Jane gets out, opens the hood – and nearly gets burned by an enormous amount of oil-scented steam.

"Something fried in there," says Lisbon, standing behind him. "It's alright, we can still get there in time – I'll call for assistance and –

\- No! Don't call. I don't want anybody with me tonight."

He closes back the hood, and she can see the muscles in his jaw clenching with anger before he bangs his fist on top of the car. For a moment they stay silent, side by side, watching the sun set – it's really quite beautiful – until Jane picks up his shotgun and starts walking along the road without a word, and Lisbon thinks back on his last sentence, finally understanding what he was implying.

"You – you were about to _leave me behind?_ "

She runs after him and grabs his shoulder, blazing with fury.

"I can't believe you would do that! What was your plan, stop on the side and force me to get out at gunpoint?"

The look he gives her is haunted and glowering, and frankly scares her a little – enough so that she lets go of him.

"Isn't the point moot anyway?

\- _You son of a bitch!_ "

That he doesn't even bother denying his plans makes her want to hit him, but then she realises the anger she sees on his face is just part of his thundering look – even when his whole features are frozen in murderous focus, his knuckles are white on the cardboard roller and his shoulders are slumping with defeat.

He doesn't believe they'll get there in time.

"Jane," she calls after him. "We can still – if I call assistance from local PD, they'll help."

He stops, turns around to face her, and she can read despair in his eyes, clear as day.

"No police. I have to do this alone, Lisbon, you can't just – you can't just _stop_ me. Not now. I _need_ to do this.

\- You do this, and you'll throw your life away!

\- Don't you understand? I don't _have_ a life! Red John took it from me. The only thing left for me now is to take _his_. And I will. _Tonight_."

She gasps at him as he turns away and walks with renewed energy – nearly running now, as if to put as much distance between them as possible. Because he knows – he _has_ to know – the effect those words have on her.

The sky is blood red, and Jane is running away.

And this – this is the last straw. He wants to run, _fine_ – she won't be running after him any more. He wants to throw away his life, he wants to commit murder, he wants to – to –

She rubs a spot between her eyes and sighs.

Of course she'll run after him.

Again.

 _Always._

Because she doesn't need saving, but Jane does. Jane always needed saving from himself.

A car passes by. She ignores it, goes back to the eggshell blue contraption stranded on the road, opens the hood again – and groans. This thing isn't going to be moving any time soon. She'll have to find another solution. As she picks up her phone to dial 9-1-1, she sees another car coming on the road – and realises, this is it.

This is the solution she needs.

The driver isn't very happy to get booted out of his vehicle – but at this point, she doesn't care. The night is falling quickly and Jane is still running alone on the side of the road. Who knows what could happen to him if she doesn't get to him quickly. If he gets hit by a random car or even, Heavens forbid, _Red John's_ car, she'll never forgive herself. And if that means she has to give him implicit permission...

 _... then so be it._

She drives carefully – too carefully perhaps, and all the while doubting herself, doubting her decision. But when she finally sees him on the side of the road, sees his curls coloured white by the lights of her car, sees him panting slightly in his sweat-clad suit and his shoulders still slumped in defeat – she knows this is the only choice left, the only one she can make.

God help her, the only one she ever made.

There's a flash of hope in his eyes when she stops near him – then astonishment colours his features when he recognises her. He hesitates slightly before he opens the door, and stays there, all the while watching her guardedly. She sighs.

"Get in."

Swallowing, she feels a heavy lump in her throat – but there's no turning back now.

"We have a serial killer to stop."

* * *

 ** _Tomorrow's prompt: Storm_**


	2. Storm

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Thank you so much for all your kind words on the last chapter! It's been a very long while since the last time I published a piece and I have to admit, I'm half-excited, half-terrified about the whole thing. In any case, I hope this next instalment won't disappoint.

* * *

 **Chapter 02 - Storm**

Jane was driving the first time around, but now Lisbon stays firmly behind the wheel. It's a confidence trick – they don't have that much road left but she figures, if she can bring herself to drive him all the way back to his house, to the meeting place, she can bring herself to let him do what he has to do.

"Why did you pick me up?" asks Jane suddenly, and there's a storm brewing in his eyes.

She bites her lip.

"I was afraid," she answers – and there must be more half-truths in that single sentence than she ever spoke aloud in her entire life.

He's not fooled, of course.

"Are you going to let me do what I have to do, or do you still intend to stop me?

\- I don't know," she whispers softly, and for a moment she wonders if she even said it out loud.

But she can see his fingers clenching on the roller in his hands, mimicking her own knuckles whitening on the wheel, and she knows he heard every word.

"Stop the car."

She frowns.

"Why would I do that? There's only about five minutes left before we reach your house.

\- Lisbon. Stop the car. Please?"

There's urgency in his voice but something else too, something dark and frightened and childish all at the same time, as if he was trying to remember how to do an old pleading puppy act but couldn't quite recall how it worked. And of course, she cannot resist that lilt in his voice – she never could. She stops the car.

Somewhere, in the distance, there's a slow rumbling of thunder.

To her surprise, he doesn't get out yet – doesn't even move except to turn towards her, seizing her with solemn, haunted eyes.

"I know I ask a lot of you," he says, and there's still this strange dark, desperate childishness dripping from his words. "I always did. I'm selfish and I take advantage of – of everything you're willing to give me, and even when you say no, I trick you into changing your mind. But this, I – I can't do this to you."

His breath hitches – or maybe it's hers. She isn't sure.

"I can't ask you to compromise your morals. And if you follow me tonight –

\- Jane, I know what I'm getting into, you don't have to –

\- No, let me – let me say this."

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, steadies himself – and when he opens his eyes again, the deep lines on his cheeks smoothen themselves somehow. He isn't smiling, but she gets the feeling if she stares long enough, she'll see the corners of his mouth rising into a smirk.

And of course, she knows it's a façade.

This is his game face – the one he uses when he wants to pretend everything is fine, nobody got injured or insulted, and of course _he isn't_ planning some sort of demented trap to catch a murderer or get a rise out of an important official. She knows better than to believe anything coming out of his mouth when he looks at her like that.

There's just one thing that seems out of place.

"If you follow me tonight, you become an accessory to murder. Even if you try to stop me – and you must know _I won't let you_ – even if you try to stop me, they _will_ charge you because I must have told you half a hundred times what I plan to do to Red John once I get him."

His hands are shaking.

"And Lisbon, you – you have no idea – you mean _everything_ to me. So – so please, _please_ stay in the car. Please don't follow me tonight. _Please_."

Letting him trick her could be so easy – she's been waiting to hear those words for so long. In other circumstances, in another setting, she could have let herself believe he genuinely cared about her, genuinely wanted to give her an out, save her from him, from herself.

But tonight, even as the shadows set on the smoothness of his features, for the first time she sees him clearly – for the first time, she can hear as many half-truths in his words than in those she gave him earlier.

He's afraid – and he doesn't want her to leave him alone _at all_.

For a split second she wonders if he could be playing reverse psychology on her again – then realises, no. This is real. He's barely keeping himself contained at the seams, too raw to play such an elaborate game on her. And that, more than anything else, is enough to cement her decision.

So she bites her lip again, then smiles.

Sadly.

"Your first mistake was telling me I mean everything to you," she says, and he flinches badly. "Obviously this isn't true, because if it was, you would've stopped chasing after Red John a long time ago."

He makes a move towards the door, and she's just quick enough to grab his wrist before he can run out of the car and away from her. Again.

"Stop running, Jane. We're partners, right? That means we're in this together.

\- I don't want you to –

\- Shut up! Just – _shut up_. No more excuses. I came here with you knowing all about your plans, and I may not agree with them but I'm still here, aren't I?"

His eyes are unreadable but his shaking hands betray him and, not for the first time, she wonders how such a consummate actor cannot seem to be able to keep his most deep and genuine emotions in check.

"So just – just do what you have to do, and I'll be – you know. Backup, or something. In case something go wrong. It always does with you."

He smiles then, a fragile sun peeking between stormy clouds, and those damn dimples of him – they always make her smile back. So she lets go of his wrist, and he gets out of the car, and soon they're walking the last miles to his house side by side.

And once again, just as they are about to turn into his entryway, he stops her – this time being the one to grab her wrist.

"I need you to stay behind," he says, and she groans.

"Aren't we past this already?!"

He chuckles softly.

"No, I mean – I need you to stay out of sight. They all know I'm not a team player. If Red John thinks I'm alone, he'll feel safer, maybe enough to let something slip. And if something _does_ go wrong, you'll have surprise on your side."

 _And if you're not in the room with us, you won't have to see me kill him_ , are the unsaid words hanging heavily between them.

"Right," she says, swallowing.

Both their hands are shaking now, and she doesn't dare move a muscle when he brings one of his up, brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes, and avert his eyes before letting go of a shallow breath.

"Thank you, Lisbon," he says – nearly a whisper, but sounding loud and clear in the silence of the night.

"You can thank me later," she answers. "And Jane?

\- Yeah?"

There's a heavy weight in her chest, something clenching and painful and ghastly, something that kept growing since the moment she decided to allow him to throw his life away for this, for his skewed notion of revenge.

"Whatever you do, if you ever cared at all about what I say to you, if you ever cared at all about _me_ – please, _please_ make it look like self-defence."

And the words hanging between them are now _please don't make me arrest you_.

His hands cup her face, tilt her chin upwards, and she closes her eyes, feels his lips brush against her forehead.

Then he's gone.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Pleasure**_


	3. Pleasure

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** I'd like to use this space to thank all the guest reviewers I cannot directly reply to, and tell you how much I enjoy hearing from you. Some of you raised flags about details in the last chapter and I tried to address those issues here, mainly because on the whole I agree with you. In any case, thank you for your kind words! And as usual, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 03 - Pleasure**

Dead leaves are crunching under his soles.

Their faint scent wafts up to his nose as he climbs the slight slope to his family house, and that crushed noise is the only one he hears through the pulsing of blood in his ears. Many cars are already parked on the side – and while he doesn't lose time counting them, he knows.

All his Red John suspects are here already.

Red John is here.

Red John is _here_.

There's no time to go back inside his house, back to their room and take a last look around – already in the distance he can hear angry whispers and grumbling calls. The men are getting impatient with his tardiness. Still, he closes his eyes for a second, reminds himself of Angela's bright smile whenever he came home early, of Charlotte's mischievous side glances whenever she tried to trick him into buying her a new gift.

Reminds himself of their lives, washed away by a grotesque storm made of Red John's knife and his own stupidity – and comes to a conclusion.

He's ready to end this.

More than ready.

As he starts walking again, he finds himself surprised by a stray thought – of Lisbon's expressive eyes trailing after him. He didn't plan to allow her here – _at all_ – but he finds himself strangely comforted by the fact even in these circumstances she kept to their pattern.

She has his back.

Even when it means going against her ideals, her morals and her faith – loyal to a fault, she keeps running after him, keeps trying to save him from others, save him from himself. And of course, he's self-aware to his own failings – self-aware enough to know he needs this. Needs her. Needs someone he can trust to pick up the pieces behind him, clean up his messes.

He's just sorry she'll have to clean this one too.

A sinister kind of glee bubbles up in his chest at the sight of those five men waiting for him. Stiles is sitting on the stairs, appearing content and amused. Haffner is back to the wall, arms crossed and angry. Bertram is sitting near Stiles and seems annoyed – from the distance though, it looks a lot like his usual, default expression. McAllister is standing on the side, face blank, arms behind his back and knees slightly bent – a posture half between a hunter and a boy-scout. And Smith – Smith is pacing, scratching his head every five seconds, clearly impatient and off-kilter.

Good. He doesn't want them to be at ease.

"Sorry for the wait," he says, a small smirk gracing his lips when they all turn to him. "There were some little... _car problems_ coming in."

Haffner snorts, but other than an eye roll, he doesn't say anything – verbally at least. His defensive and angry posture speaks enough for itself.

"Ah yes, that blue beetle I passed, coming here... I thought it belonged to you," smiles Stiles. "Shame to abandon it in the middle of the road like that."

He doesn't rise to the bait, instead walks past them, letting them know with a hand gesture they are to follow him. And they do.

Of course they do.

"After you," he says, unlocking and opening the door to his outside study.

He glares at each of them, trying to get past their walls as they try to get past him. Stiles keeps a smile on his lips, seemingly unaffected. Smith glares back, but doesn't say a word – not that he expected him to. Bertram raises an eyebrow at him, but looks shaken – and that surprises him, as he can't remember seeing Bertram anything else than in control. Haffner averts his eyes – another one to watch for, then. And McAllister – well. A blank look is all he gets.

Before setting foot inside, he stops – opens the tube with jerky movements, takes out the shotgun, lets the cardboard hit the ground with a dull sound. The firearm is heavy and cold and undeniably _strange_ in his hands. Nothing like the small handgun he used to kill Timothy Carter. But its weight is comforting somehow – keeping him grounded.

He's doing this.

He's really doing this.

"That shotgun's registered?" says McAllister as he crosses the threshold, and nothing on his blank expression betrays any tension.

That sheriff is utterly unafraid of him, and this – this raises some serious flags in his mind.

Does he think he won't go through with this? That he won't dare use it in a room full of law enforcement officers?

Or is it something deeper – a playful quip, an avowal under guise of banter, a nod to shared history?

 _Whatever._

He pumps the shotgun – and doesn't _that_ catch their attention nicely.

"Take out your weapons – slowly – place them on the floor, and push them toward me. Then sit down. We're just started," he says, and nearly smirks when they obey, eyes wide in fright and disbelief.

As he holds them in his power, he allows himself one second – one second of self-indulgence, one second to picture Red John in his grasp at last, to imagine just _how much_ he will relish his suffering. Then, traces of an unholy smile still lingering on his face, he closes the door behind him and locks it.

"I brought you five together for a reason. Some of you may know that reason – some of you may have guessed. But one of you here... is Red John."

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Lies**_


	4. Lies

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Yikes. This one was hard to write, and I'm very sorry it comes so late in the day. On another note, thank you very much for all your reviews, follows and favourites It makes me very happy. Enjoy this chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter 04 - Lies**

Of course, as soon as Jane disappears up the slope, she calls for assistance.

This is standard procedure – and as sharp can be the twinge of guilt she feels as she grabs her phone, she's the one with the training here. She won't ignore basic safety measures for the sake of keeping to Jane's non-interference wishes. There's a serial killer in there – and a crafty one, too. And if police assistance can prevent Jane from killing again... well... she didn't promise him anything.

Patrol will be there in fifteen minutes, they tell her.

Then the waiting game begins.

It doesn't take long before the jitters and self-doubts start. Everything is too quiet, and this isn't even a proper stake-out. Her partner – the most important person in her everyday life really, someone who's not even a cop, just a civilian – is right in the line of fire, and she's out there waiting for...

 _For what exactly?_

What if they band together and overpower him? What if they kill him?

The moment she decides _enough is enough_ and starts walking towards the house, a loud noise echoes in the night.

She starts running. That noise – it sounded a bit like a gunshot. A very big one. From a shotgun? Did Jane shoot someone? She skids a bit on the dead leaves scattered on the ground. Hands on the bay window, she peers through the glass – everything is dark. Where are they? There's light in the backyard. No movement. Did they turn on him? Running again, hoping against all odds she can get there before lasting damage is done – how much time before patrol arrives again?

She comes to a stop as she turns the corner – the door to Jane's outside study is open.

Someone walks out.

For a second she stays put, squinting, trying to identify who it is. But in the end, there's really only one thing to check out in this situation.

It's not Jane.

And that means whoever it is _could be_ Red John.

"Stay where you are!" she says, drawing her gun.

\- You'd shoot an unarmed man without provocation?"

The man stops in his tracks, hand against the wall to keep his balance. She comes closer, but not too close, just in case – but he doesn't move, seemingly content to wait after her.

"Sheriff McAllister," she says, finally recognising the uniform. "What happened?

\- Somebody in there hid a stun bomb," he answers in an unusually loud voice between short breaths. "The others, they're out cold."

From up close, she can see his scrunched eyebrows, the deep lines around his panting mouth, his short hair in disarray. All signs of pain, all signs of vulnerability that makes her want to drop her weapon and help him, but – no. If she learned one thing from Jane's antics, it's how easily he always manipulates her using her compassionate nature.

"How come _you're_ not?" she asks, suspicion colouring her voice.

"Saw the device before it exploded. I knew what it was from my time in the army. Jumped behind the couch."

She frowns.

"Who had the bomb?

\- Didn't see. You gonna lower that weapon, Agent Lisbon?" answers McAllister in an annoyed tone.

And for a second she's really tempted to obey. McAllister has been nothing but non-threatening and helpful in his answers, but somehow – somehow, something doesn't sound right. And that gut feeling is the one Jane is always nagging her to listen to.

"Show me your shoulder first," she says, eyebrows raised.

McAllister sighs loudly.

"Oh, there's no need for _that_ ," he says, pushing himself from the wall.

And suddenly there's a gun in his hand – still facing her, he walks backwards, _slowly_ , toward the corner of the house. Dread fills her mind, for she knows how steady that man's hand is. Still, she has to do _something_.

"Stop! Drop your weapon or I'll shoot!

\- You know, you and Patrick got it wrong," he says, stopping as she asked, but keeping his gun lazily trailed on her. "The tattoo – you don't know what it means. I'm not Red John!

\- I don't care. Drop your weapon."

And finally – _finally_ – she hears the loud wailing of police cars coming on the road. McAllister stays still, features slack, darkened eyes boring into hers. For a split second she can read conflict in those eyes, that same expression every cornered criminal sports right before arrest – and the hand on her weapon tightens.

"I _will_ shoot," she promises, voice calm, steady and deadly serious.

In that moment, they understand each other perfectly. She knows if she shoots, he will shoot back. She knows he'll probably kill her. And _he_ knows she will shoot anyway – ready to lay her life at his feet to stop him.

"Impressive," he whispers, before lowering himself very, very slowly – and dropping his gun.

She cuffs him and reads him his rights – just as two men from Santa Monica PD show up. She gives them quick instructions to set up a perimeter, call an ambulance and make sure to keep an eye on McAllister – and once _that_ is taken care of, she doesn't waste a moment more before running back to the garden house.

"Jane!" she screams, worried out of her mind. "Jane! Where are you?"

Smoke from the flashbang is still filling up the place, and she nearly trips on Reede Smith as she tries to get through it. The man groans – and she would ignore him in her haste to get to Jane if his arms weren't bare, and if there wasn't a tattoo on his shoulder.

"I need back-up in here!" she yells – pointing her gun on Smith, who barely looks conscious.

She used her cuffs earlier on McAllister and she's starting to regret not picking up at least one more pair before setting foot inside. But once again Santa Monica PD comes through – picking up and cuffing them all, as she asks, because if McAllister refused to show her his arm and Reede Smith _did_ have the tattoo on his shoulder, that means something fishy is going on and she has to take every possible precaution. Any one of them could be Red John, but moreover, any one of them could have set the stun bomb.

And then at last she finds Jane on the floor, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Out cold.

 _Is that blood trickling from his ear?_

"Jane," she whispers, crouching near him to check his vitals. "Jane? Can you hear me? Come on, wake up. Jane!"

Soon they haul him up in the ambulance, and she hops in, glaring at whomever would try to boot her out. She's not leaving him alone one more minute if she can avoid it.

Or possibly ever again.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Dream**_


	5. Dream

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Finally a chapter with a proper length! Haha. My brain is currently running amok like a kid naked in the rain, yelling something that sounds like "LALALA I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING!" Welp. Whatever it's doing, I'll make sure it does it well. Enjoy the chapter! **  
**

 **Warning:** This chapter deals with a shooting and life-threatening, highly stressful situations. If this triggers you in any way, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Chapter 05 - Dream**

Ten hours later, and Jane is the only one sleeping still.

McAllister was the first to be cleared by the hospital staff – still conscious and in perfect control of his hearing, vision and general bearings, they sent him to the nearest holding cell. Smith, the second to wake up, quickly joined him after his escape was foiled by the policemen waiting for him on the other side of the curtain. After that, they made sure to cuff the others to their bed – and when Haffner began hurling abuse to his watchers, he was brought in too.

Then the FBI came in and took custody of Stiles. Absorbed in her worry for Jane, she didn't even try to fight them – and the old man was taken away kicking and screaming.

She has no idea what became of Bertram – the bed he was assigned to was empty last time she went to the restroom. If she was pressed to answer, she'd say he was taken in like the others. Truth is, right now she cares very little about Bertram – or any of the men in that last string of arrests.

Jane isn't waking up.

It isn't the first time she gets to sit beside his hospital bed. It won't be the last time either, of that she's sure – he pretty much embodies the definition of "trouble magnet". But for some unfathomable reason, this time is different. Feels different.

Maybe it's the deep line between his eyes, the frown at war with the vulnerable slant of his mouth.

Until a few weeks ago, he used to remind her of a little boy when he slept – and she's seen him so often dozing on his couch, or hers, or in the back seat of her car. Sometimes with his arms crossed on his chest, sometimes with a hand under his cheek – always peacefully, always innocently, always with abandon. But when he emerged from his attic after a week of isolation, when he shared his final list of seven names with her – after a few days, she realised the daytime napping was over. And that worried her.

Worries her still, because she knows him – knows his nightly sleep intake is minimal, three hours at most. And that unshaven stubble on his chin reminds her uncomfortably of the mess he was on that far-away day when they first met, ten years ago.

No wonder his body shut down as soon as it got the chance.

With that state of mind, if she's going to stay by his side and keep staring at the way his mess of curls stick to the white sheets, the way his chest slowly, slowly rises and falls – well, she'll need more coffee.

And something to eat.

A muffin would be nice.

Maybe he'd like one too. Blueberries, right? But not too dry. Just like his eggs – he's very peculiar about those. And his tea. Would he like tea? Maybe she can make him some in the restroom, and bring it over, and maybe the smell would make him smile, he told her he liked hers, and _damnit Jane, will you wake up already...!_

Someone comes to a stop behind her – and she doesn't need to turn around to know it's Cho. She'd recognise his strong, silent support anywhere.

"You okay?" he asks after a moment.

"I'm fine," she says – hating that her voice sounds so vulnerable. "The doctors say Jane's stable, there's no major trauma or anything. He's just – not awake.

\- Okay. Wanna get some coffee?

\- Yeah," she sighs. "Let's go."

With a last long look to Jane's unmoving form, she follows Cho out of the room.

"I've got some of our people to pick up Haffner, Bertram, Smith and McAllister," he says. "They told you the FBI got Stiles?

\- Yeah, they did. Frankly I don't care. I checked – he's not Red John.

\- How do you know?

\- He doesn't have the tattoo."

Cho nods.

"The others?"

She shrugs. Picks a cup, pushes a button. The smell of coffee is both awful and divine.

"You didn't check?

\- Smith has it," she answers. "McAllister didn't want to show me his arm, so he probably has it too. I didn't check for Haffner and Bertram, but we got them in custody anyway. I just hope Jane knows what it means.

\- It means we can't trust anyone outside the team," says Cho very matter-of-factly.

She glances at him sideways.

"We already knew that."

Cho smirks. She smiles back.

"I'm going back to see Jane. Do you want to come with me?

\- No, I'm going to check out that tattoo business.

\- Warn Rigsby and Van Pelt, but keep it quiet for now. It's going to be a PR nightmare if Bertram has one too. As soon as Jane is discharged, we'll come back and take care of it.

\- Take your time, Boss," he says, picking up his coffee. "Nobody's going anywhere."

She nods, throat suddenly tight, and watches as he leaves. Then she walks back to Jane's bed, picking up a chair on her way, setting it near him. Once comfortably settled – or at least, as comfortable as possible on a plastic chair – she lets her eyes fall on his unmoving form.

He's exactly as she left him – sleeping peacefully on his back, deep frown between his eyebrows, lips just slightly parted, breathing deep and slow.

For a long moment, she wonders if it would be weird to grab his hand.

They don't do that sort of thing. They don't touch – not really. Fleeting brushes here and there, most of them initiated by Jane, some awkward hugging, an even more awkward dance – and once, they held hands in an emotional moment.

Once. In ten years of working together.

Of course, professionally, that was the wise thing to do. The only thing to do, really. But personally, it fills these kind of moments with more awkwardness than it perhaps should, and sometimes she wonders how it would've been if they could be friends without all the complications of being co-workers.

On the one side, they would've never been as close.

On the _other_ side, maybe they could've acted on – _no, don't go there_.

Just as she decides, ultimately, _not_ to take his hand between hers, someone draws the curtains back. She raises her head – it's a man in hospital grubs, a man with dark eyes and burly arms and a general air of wrongness. Her sense are immediately on high alert and she stands up, facing him.

"Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane?" he asks, and something cold in his voice makes her put her hand on her gun discreetly.

"Yes," she answers in a cautious voice. "Who are you?

\- _Tyger Tyger_ ," he answers – and suddenly draws a knife on her.

Only her high-trained reflexes save her. The blade slashes through her arm and she nearly drops her gun – but she doesn't, and fires. In such close quarters, the noise is deafening and the wound fatal – but filled with adrenaline, she still pushes Jane's bed against the wall, puts herself between him and the man writhing on the ground, and keeps her weapon firmly set on him.

"Help!" she yells. "I need help in here! That man tried to kill us!"

The next seconds disappear in a blur – tainted by this intense unreal feeling that settles on her with a crushing weight. This is a nightmare. There is no other word. She vaguely recalls doctors and nurses coming by, trying to convince her to draw back her gun long enough to pick up the dead man and stitch her arm, and security trying to pry her from Jane – both failing, of course, because somehow she grabbed his hand at some point and now refuses to let go, refuses to move from his side. They won't get him. They won't.

"It's alright Lisbon," she hears in her ear. "It's alright, you can let go."

And she knows that voice, trusts its owner just enough to turn her head, to see if she's not mistaken in who it belongs to – and yes, she does recognise him. Of course she does.

"Hey," says Jane.

"Hey," she says back.

"You're crushing my hand a little," he grins.

"Yeah," she says, and sighs. "Sorry," she adds, loosening her grip but not quite letting go.

"I think that woman over there wants to, uhm, do something about all that blood you're dropping everywhere.

\- I'm sure she does," she snorts.

"Want to let her help then? You're making everyone nervous, waving that gun like that."

She blinks, and time starts back – her tunnel vision fades, and she can hear the usual hospital sounds again. Three men with a security uniform are aiming firearms on her, and everyone seem uncharacteristically quiet – frightened, she realises. Of her.

 _Shit._

"It's okay, she's with the CBI, not a serial killer!" quips Jane as she puts her gun back in its holster on her hip. "Call this number, ask for Agent Cho, he'll be happy to confirm."

For the first time, Jane handles officials while she gets patched up – and she's impressed, because she never thought he'd be able to make problems go away with minimal fuss. But he does, and she's relieved – pain is now coursing through her and her mind is still half-fuzzy from the adrenaline drop, there's no way she could be any kind of efficient right now.

Cho makes an appearance just as the nurse knots her last stitch while Jane distracts her his usual way, with light flirt and funny comments.

"Hey," he says. "What happened?

\- Later," interrupts Jane, and takes the opportunity to jump off his bed now that her attention is divided.

She glares. He grins, unrepentant, then picks up his clothes.

"We should get out of here before we talk about anything sensitive," he adds, dressing himself quickly.

"I agree," says Cho, and something in his voice makes her look at him sharply.

"Come on then," she says, leading the way – but both Cho and Jane stop her.

"Cho first," Jane says, and the steely note in his voice startles her into compliance.

Getting out of the hospital takes less than five minutes, thankfully, and it doesn't take much longer until they hop in Cho's CBI-issued SUV.

"Now. You and Jane lured a bunch of Red John suspects into his house. The meeting went wrong, a stun bomb went off, you arrested everyone and got to the hospital with Jane," says Cho, turning the key in the ignition. "What happened next?

\- I was back with Jane when someone barged in, asked for us by name, said " _Tyger, Tyger_ " and tried to kill us," she answers, and feels a small shiver crawling up her spine. "He missed, nicked my arm with a knife and I shot him.

\- " _Tyger, Tyger"_. That's the Blake poem Red John likes.

\- It's more than that," says Jane. "There were three suspects with a tattoo on their shoulder –

\- Yeah. Reede Smith, Sheriff McAllister and Bertram," says Cho.

"Yes. All of them in law enforcement. I'm betting this is a _conspiracy_ of sorts. The tattoo is the membership sign, and " _Tyger Tyger_ " some sort of calling card. It's how they recognise each other.

\- You mean like – a secret society of dirty cops?" she asks with disbelief.

"And Red John is a member," finishes Jane, with a dark kind of satisfaction.

"About that," says Cho. "I've got bad news.

\- _More_ bad news?

\- Yeah. I went to pick up your suspects downtown. Reede Smith's dead.

\- What? _How?_ That's impossible, he didn't even suffer from smoke inhalation! I saw him with the doctors in the hospital, they gave him a clean bill of health!

\- Apparently he tried to escape. They had to shoot him."

Jane growls slightly.

"They killed him. Just like Kirkland.

\- Yeah, that's what I thought," nods Cho. "But that's not all. When I got there, there was only Haffner. Bertram and McAllister never made it to the station."

She opens her mouth, then closes it. For once, she has no idea what to say. She still feels this is unreal somehow – a dream. A nightmare.

Her arm hurts.

"Jane. Do you know which of them is Red John?" asks Cho.

Jane hesitates, then shakes his head.

"It could be either of them, or none. Did you see Smith's body?

\- Yeah. He's really dead. I checked."

For a moment they keep silent, mulling over the information.

"They're trying to shut us up," she says, and shivers once again.

\- It must be how they work. We know too much," answers Jane – and fleetingly, she feels his hand on her shoulder before it's gone again.

"You're both in danger," says Cho. "They already tried to kill you. You can either make yourself very visible, or go underground into WITSEC."

"Let's make ourselves visible then," she says.

"Underground sounds good," says Jane at the same time.

"What? Jane, we can't go into WITSEC, it's run by cops, that's beyond irresponsible – "

But then she stops – because turning to him, she sees his eyes. Those are not the eyes of a man ready to hide. Those are the eyes of a man on the warpath – those of a hunter, patient enough to plan an ambush and wait until his prey falls for it. And he holds her gaze, let her see everything – knowing she will read his intentions clear as day.

Somehow, she realises, somehow in the last twenty-four hours, hey got past the lies. They got past the tricks and the mind games and the manipulation, they got to a point where he trusts her enough to let her choose. Because she once chose him over herself, and he wants to know if she will make that choice again.

Trusts her to make that choice again.

She closes her eyes.

"Fine," she whispers.

"Cho, turn around. We need to go back to my house."

Letting go is harder than she thought.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Shame**_


	6. Shame

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** You're all so nice to me, I don't know what to say. Thank you so, so much! **  
**

**Warning:** This chapter deals with the psychological aftermath of a life-threatening, high stressful situation, and includes descriptions of acute anxiety, mental confusion and distress. If this triggers you in any way, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Chapter 06 - Shame**

"You sure about this?" asks Cho, frowning slightly. "We can still put an APB on Bertram and McAllister, spread the word. Organise a manhunt. They won't get far."

Lisbon shakes her head.

"I'm sure," she says. "We don't know how many people are helping them. If Jane is right about this conspiracy thing, chances are there won't be any trace of their arrest in the system. You know how it works – no proof... no crime. The only thing an APB would do right now is spook them, force them into something rash and put everybody at risk. They already tried to kill us. I don't want them coming after you."

She bites her lip, glances at Jane who's quietly standing on the side, lightly rocking on his feet.

"Jane and I will be fine. But you, Rigsby and Van Pelt – I need you to pretend everything is fine. Go to work like you always do. You only know about Haffner's arrest, you last saw Jane and I in the hospital, you don't know where we are now. If you don't know anything, they won't send people after you."

Cho keeps silent for a moment, eyes drilling into hers.

"This isn't like you," he says after a few seconds.

"Trying to protect my team?" she teases.

"Going rogue," he answers bluntly.

"I know," she sighs. "But –

\- You trust Jane. Understood. Call me as soon as you can."

With a last long look, Cho gets back in the car, leaving them at the bottom of the slope to Jane's house. Soon the SUV is gone, and they find themselves alone.

"What now?" she asks, eyes still trailing on the road where Cho disappeared.

"Now you come with me," he answers with a smile, gently guiding her with a hand on her back.

They walk up the alley, barely glancing at the cars left on the side – until she recognises Bertram's vehicle in the midst of the others. And that surprises her, because why didn't he come back here to get his car as soon as he got out of custody?

Are they too late? Did Bertram and McAllister go into hiding already?

But if they did, why send a killer after them? Why try to shut them up?

Her head is spinning with questions and confusing snippets of answers – and this situation is completely out of her comfort zone. She's not the one constantly coming up with extravagant plans to trick criminals into confessions – that's Jane's area of expertise. She's the straight shooter, the one with the gun – the one who protects and arrests. The one who shoots – _the one who shoots_ –

 _Crap._

"Jane, there's – _something_ – I need to –

\- Shhh," he says, stopping at the top of the stairs – _when did they climb them?_ – and unlocking the door. "Come on in, we'll talk inside."

As soon as he closes the door behind them, he guides her to what must have been the living room a long time ago. Furniture covered with white sheets litter the room, and for a moment she stands in the middle of it without any idea what to do with herself. But then Jane lifts one of the sheets, uncovers a plush leather couch which, with a slight tug on her good arm, he convinces her to sit on. Then he walks to the fireplace – which she didn't notice in the first place – and only moments later a fire is licking dry wood merrily, heating the room, repelling a chill she didn't even realise had seeped into her bones.

"Wait here, I'll be right back," Jane says before leaving the room.

She obeys without a word. And she's aware how out of character that is for her, but she feels so – so _tired_. Cold and tired and out of her depth.

By the time Jane comes back hauling a mattress and blankets under his arms, she moved from the couch to the fireplace and is sitting on the ground, head against the wall, arms around her knees, trying to ward off the cold she can't seem to shake off by herself. He frowns, closes the distance between them and reaches out to her.

"Hey. Come here.

\- Come where?" she asks drowsily.

"I made you a bed.

\- I don't want to sleep.

\- You're half-asleep already, Lisbon."

He's right. She rubs her eyes, tries to shake it off.

"M'fine.

\- You're not. You're injured, in shock and you've been up for more than twenty-four hours. You need a change of clothes and then you need to sleep."

She tries to protest, but soon enough he takes charge, helps her to her feet and gently set her down on the mattress, on which she finds clean sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"I'm going to make some tea, I'll be right back. If you give me your clothes, I'll wash them while you sleep," he says, an odd little smile on his face before leaving the room.

Mind foggy with hurt and exhaustion, she changes with slow movements, too tired to wonder just whom those clothes are – they are clean and comfortable, that's all that really matters. Something is nagging her however, a stray thought she had earlier, something she cannot remember clearly – something important. What was it? Something about Bertram's car...

"Lisbon, you decent? Can I come in?"

Jane's amused voice makes her lose her train of thought again – but she laughs, and marvels at the sensation. Laughing after such a day seems – odd. Strange. Nearly sacrilegious. She killed a man today. She shot –

 _She nearly shot –_

"Jane!"

She pushes the blankets away in a panic. In a second he's by her side, worried and frowning. But she needs to _wake up_ , she needs to _get up_ , they need to –

"Hey, hey! What's going on? Tell me what's wrong.

\- Everything's wrong! We need to get out, we need to – to –

\- Lisbon, _stop_ ," he says, and his voice has that odd calming property he sometimes get when he talks to suspects, the one he uses when he's trying to hypnotise someone, he won't hypnotise her, _he won't_ , she needs to _tell him_ –

"Lisbon. _Breathe_. Breathe with me. In... Out. In... Out. That's right. That's it. Nice and steady."

And suddenly he's behind her, cradling her against him, and the sensation takes her by surprise because him holding her is _new_ and _overwhelming_ and _security_ in a Jane-shaped blanket.

"It's alright. It's alright," he whispers in her ear, and she's shaking and crying and _she has no idea why_ – but his warmth and soothing voice is enough to ground her, just like in the hospital earlier, just enough so that she can slowly relax, slowly get back to normal.

He releases her as soon as she can breathe by herself again, but he stays beside her on the mattress as she wipes her face and averts her eyes, her usually fair skin ablaze with embarrassment and confusion.

"I'm sorry, I – I don't know what came over me, I –

\- It's fine," he says gently. "You had a panic attack, which is perfectly understandable in the circumstances and proves my earlier point – you really need to rest."

She swallows, take a deep breath and nods.

"I guess," she mutters, before glancing at him. "But before I do – there's something I need to tell you. There's something you need to know. But first..."

Takes another breath. Looks him in the eyes.

"First, I need you to promise me – whatever happens, we are in this together.

\- Of course we are.

\- Jane, I'm serious here. No tricks. No lies. No leaving me behind – _ever again_. I need you to promise me."

Because if she tells him, if she chooses him over herself once and for all, she needs the same level of commitment. Won't be satisfied with less.

For several long minutes, Jane stays silent. She can read the conflict on his features, in his eyes – in the way his fingers are twisting a corner of blanket. The fire is still crackling in the fireplace, its warmth making her aware of her own exhaustion again. But she waits, and holds his gaze, and waits again.

She really needs to hear this.

"You won't try to stop me?" he finally asks, with a childish lilt reminiscent of the boy he must have been once.

"If you promise not to leave me behind, I won't stop you," she says, this time wholeheartedly.

"And what will happen once it's done?" he asks again, this time with hints of dark guilt and shame.

"We'll deal with it when it's time," she answers – because she knows him, she knows how resourceful he is, and she has entire faith in his ability to find a loophole or some other solution. He's done it so many times already.

But even if they have to deal with the justice system, she's ready for that too.

As long as they do this together.

"Okay. I promise," he whispers.

And she believes him.

"Good," she says. "Good. Because I know who Red John is."

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Coffee**_


	7. Coffee

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Thank you to all of you for still following this story, and especially those of you who guest review. I don't have a way to reply to your comments (and I would if I could), but rest assured I read and love all of them. It means a lot to me to get so many supportive comments, you're all so nice.  
By the way, I've seen on my stats page a surprising number of readers come from France or other French-speaking countries? Le français est ma langue maternelle, donc si vous préférez communiquer avec moi dans cette langue, ça me fera plaisir de vous répondre. **  
**

**Warning:** This chapter contains some description of gore/body horror. If that triggers you in any way, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Chapter 07 - Coffee**

He spends a disturbing amount of time watching her sleep.

Sipping his tea, he lets his eyes roam on the curves and creases of her face, mapping each and every worry line, each and every imperfection of her skin – hoping against all odds to find an answer to her uncharacteristic turnabout. The answer, of course, isn't there to find.

Incredible that after all this time, even knowing her as he knows her, she still manages to surprise him so completely.

And that makes him happy, for reasons he's not sure he understands – or _wants_ to understand just yet.

A loud buzz breaks his concentration. Making sure she didn't wake up, he sets his teacup on the coffee table and walks to the other room where the dryer just finished its cycle. As he folds his trousers and hangs her blouse, he realises an odd little smile has settled on his lips again. This is – so _domestic_. Lisbon sleeping in front of the fire in his living room. Washing their clothes together. Busying himself with menial tasks while she rests. He likes it – _missed_ it.

And it's making him lose focus.

Again.

Fortunately, he knows exactly how to get it back.

He relaxes his grip on the socks he was holding, puts it back where it belongs – grits his teeth instead. Then, after leaving a neat pile of Lisbon's clothing on the couch, he takes a deep breath and climbs up the stairs. Forces himself to look at each family picture, each child's drawing on his way to their room – and once he gets to the door, closes his eyes to make sure he recalls every sound, every smell, every feeling he felt that night before opening the door.

Hate – _and self-hatred_ – is still boiling inside him like a hot tar pit.

Good.

The bloody, smiling face is still there on the wall – faded by time and sunlight and everything his family won't ever have again. The pang of grief and loss is still as fresh as it was ten years ago – but this time, this time he has a name.

This time he knows exactly who did this.

And the only thing left to do now – is to find him.

When he gets back on the main floor, he goes straight to his vault. He had planned to pick up the gun inside a day earlier, before his meeting with the five men – but now, he's glad he didn't have the time. It's less powerful, its weight less reassuring than the shotgun, but at least it's easier to hide – and easier to handle.

And now he isn't defenceless anymore.

Lisbon is still sleeping, he notices with a fond smile. He plans to let her rest as long as possible before they have to leave. They still have one hour left before sunset, and that's perfect – it lets him just enough time for a little snoop-around.

Gun hidden under his shirt, he walks out of the house cautiously, paying extreme attention to any unusual noise or sound that would betray someone watching. But nothing seems wrong – at least for now. And there's still five cars parked on his property.

Three of them belonging to men with a three-dots tattoo.

One of them belonging to Red John.

He starts with Reede Smith's. The man is dead – they must have killed him for a reason. His car is silvery grey, pretty much nondescript – and, as the papers reveal, a location. Nothing to find there.

Well, that is a disappointment.

Bertram's car, on the other hand, is definitely his. A dark blue Sedan, tall and large, one he saw a thousand times in the CBI parking lot. The cream coloured inside isn't very personalised, but in the gloves compartment, there's a map of California, an address book – which he pockets, with the intent to leaf through it later – and a burner phone with only one contact. This – this is good. This is an important clue.

He feels his hands shaking slightly as he turns to McAllister's police car – a black thing with green lettering on the side. Almost aggressively easy to recognise.

 _When the stun bomb exploded in your study, McAllister was the only one still on his feet_ , said Lisbon earlier.

Something is leaking from under the vehicle.

 _He told me he knew what it was and jumped behind a couch to protect himself, but that makes no sense._

A stream of fluid that appears dark brown in the yellowing light of sunset – just a small rivulet, pooling around a rear tire.

 _You were all out of it_ _– a stun bomb doesn't knock out people, it just makes them dizzy, unable to fight back._

He could easily mistake it for coffee – dropped there on the ground as the men were waiting for him perhaps.

 _He must have knocked you out himself, and that means he planned this, right?_

The foetid miasma of rotting meat surrounding the car is enough to dispel that notion.

 _That means he's Red John. Right?_

One arm covering his nose, he opens the driver's door. The stink increases tenfold – and as he snoops around the various knick-knacks sitting in the front, he spies on the back seat a large blanket. It's covering something – something long, something made of several bumps. Something stinking to high heavens, and he knows – of course he knows what it is.

Still, after pocketing everything he can put his hands on, cautiousness and a healthy streak of masochism make him open the back door – and lift the blanket.

Greying, rotting flesh.  
Lips stretched in a humourless grimace, baring teeth.  
Milky, blind eyes staring ahead.

He drops the blanket, turns away and retches.

 _Why is there a corpse in McAllister's car?_

Suddenly he feels the urge to get far, far away from there. Half-staggering, half-running, he goes back to the front of his house, climbs up the stairs, gets back inside as if chased by demons.

And maybe he is.

Metaphorically of course.

But Red John is bad enough to fit the bill, he thinks. Lisbon could tell him. She's the catholic, after all.

As if on autopilot, he walks to the bathroom, puts water on his face, washes his hands – brushes his teeth. Then goes upstairs, packs a bag – taking care to pick up some clothes from his wife's side of the closet for Lisbon. In less than five minutes, he's done. Then he goes back to the living room and puts out the fire.

"Hey," he whispers, shaking Lisbon's shoulder gently. "Wake up.

\- Hmm?" she mutters, eyes still half-closed, and she's breaking his heart – he would like nothing more than to let her sleep.

"Wake up," he repeats. "We need to get a move on."

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Magic**_


	8. Magic

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Today's prompt isn't as prominent as I wanted it to be, but Jane and Lisbon were so chatty I had trouble keeping the chapter on tracks. So let's pretend it's all about the magic of easy friendly banter and Jane needing saving again! Have fun, I know I did. :) **  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 08 - Magic**

"What's going on? You're pacing like a tiger in a cage."

He glances at her sideways – she winces.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to imply –

\- It's fine."

He rolls his eyes a little.

"My point still stands," she says, grabbing the bag he left by the door. "What's going on? You've been a nervous wreck since you woke me up.

\- It's nothing. I'm impatient to go, that's all.

\- Jane. No lies, remember?"

Right. He breathes deeply.

"Sorry. This – honesty thing, it'll take a little adjustment."

She smiles, but remains silent and waiting – unwilling to take the chance he'd use that statement as a deflection. He smirks.

How very street-wise of her.

"There's a rotting corpse in McAllister's car," he says flippantly.

She stares.

"I'm guessing he didn't plan to leave it there.

\- Well, that's the thing. I have no idea what he was thinking.

\- And that makes you nervous," she says, and he nods. "Well, let's think then. Why would he bring a dead body to your house? Do you think he was planning to frame you for murder?

\- I have no idea. It's definitely possible – but there's so many possibilities, it's making me a bit dizzy.

\- _And_ nervous.

\- Yes. And nervous. Are you ready to go?"

She frowns.

"You still didn't tell me why you want to leave a place where you have a field advantage," she says, putting the bag back on the ground. "But first, I'd like to see that body.

\- Why on earth would you want to do that? It's grey and stinking and – and _leaking_.

\- What's with the squeamishness?" she asks with a bemused voice. "You've seen dead bodies in a bad shape before. What's so terrible with this one?"

And he averts his eyes, because he honestly has no idea. He just knows he wants Lisbon as far away from it as possible. And preferably himself as well. Something isn't right with the whole situation.

"Come on," she says, waving to him then turning without waiting to see if he'll follow – trusting he will.

And with great reluctance he complies – because she's right, logically there might be clues, something he missed the first time around. As unlikely as that sounds.

As they walk outside, he finds himself on high alert again. The setting sun paints the landscape a bright and deep orange, something he used to love when his family was still alive – but his family is dead and the childish laughter he can hear faintly in the distance isn't Charlotte's. Everything else is quiet – too quiet.

Lisbon, on the other side, is walking with purpose to McAllister's car – but even she falters a bit when she gets close enough to smell what's inside.

"That's disgusting," she mutters, and he grins a little.

"Told you!"

He left the door open earlier – she's already reaching for a corner of the blanket. And he's got a bad feeling about this but there's no substantial evidence – just a hunch, something he can't explain, an uneasy sense of danger too vague to put into words. And for a handful of seconds, he lets himself relax because this is ridiculous, nothing is going to happen.

But then she lifts the blanket, and her eyes widen, and suddenly she's sprinting toward him.

"Get down!" she yells, right before tackling him to the ground.

She lands on top of him just as the world seems to explode. For a second, he has no idea what happened – his world is reduced to his head hurting where it hit the pavement, his ears ringing and the dead weight in the shape of Lisbon sitting on his lungs.

But then he blinks once, twice, and Lisbon rolls off him and groans, and there's unbearable heat licking his skin. Fire. There's a fire somewhere close.

"Are you alright?

\- Yeah," he answers, still a bit bewildered. "What happened?

\- There was a bomb under the blanket," she says, getting up and helping him do the same. "It didn't look like the kind that can be triggered remotely, but then I heard something click and I just – reacted. You okay?

\- Yes, and I'm very grateful, head bump and all," he quips as they run to cover behind the nearest car. "You saved my life again.

\- Twice in one day. We must be setting a record," she grins – then sobers as she glances his way. "I'm sorry, I should have listened to you.

\- You should always listen to me," he says with a cheeky smile. "But I didn't know about the bomb. I just – something wasn't right with the whole setting. It made no sense.

\- Well, you _did_ try to tell me, and as I keep you around because of those kind of hunches, the least I could do is listen to them.

\- And here I thought you kept me around because of how much more exciting I make your life!"

She flicks his ear – and he smiles.

 _Normalcy, found in the unlikeliest places._

They stay quiet for a few minutes, waiting to see if they'll get attacked again.

Nothing.

"Whose car is this?" he asks, reaching to the handle.

Locked.

 _Figures._

"Haffner I think," she says as he finds his lock-picking set in his pocket. " _What_ are you doing?

\- _Well_ , we need a car to get out of here," he answers. "I'd like to call the fire department at some point before the whole property burns up, but we can't be here when they get in because the whole point of staying low-key is – _staying low-key_. And Haffner isn't around to complain about car abuse so, you know, merely seizing an opportunity here."

She rolls her eyes, but says nothing. He smirks. The door opens.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be grateful if we bring it back to Sacramento. Hop in!

\- _You_ hop in," she says, eyebrows rising, voice outraged. " _I'm_ driving."

He chuckles. Still half-crouching, she walks to the other side and raps impatiently in the windows – and once she's sitting in the driver's seat, she starts rummaging under the dashboard.

"Do you even know how to – "

The car starts.

"I'm impressed," he says, chuckling. "Who would have known Saint Teresa was such a delinquent?

\- Shut up!" she grins – still a little smug.

As she well can be.

After a very quick stop to pick up the bag he packed earlier, they leave in Haffner's car, getting to the highway as quickly as possible so they won't be easily identified – _or easily targeted_ – from the side-road. Other than his call to the fire department fifteen minutes in, they drive in silence, each of them lost in thought. Lisbon's eyes keep to the road, and he uses the last of daylight to go through Bertram's address book.

"Anything useful?" she asks when he closes it with a snap.

"I'm not sure," he answers with a frown. "All the names in there are of people working in law enforcement.

\- Do you think it's a list of people in that – cop conspiracy thing?

\- I doubt that very much," he says, opening the book again. "There's J.J. LaRoche in there. Can you really imagine him being in tow with Red John?"

She stays silent for a while.

"Not really," she says, hesitating. "But that Tupperware business..."

And this must be the only time in his life he ever did a double-take.

"You looked inside?!

\- Of course not!

\- Who are you and what have you done with Teresa Lisbon?!"

Grinning madly, he keeps staring at her. She blushes.

"I did _not_ ," she repeats. "But when I was researching, I – kind of found out what was inside. _I didn't look_ , stop that!"

She swats him. He laughs.

"Don't worry, I won't ask," he smirks lightly. "Takes the magic out of it.

\- Anyway," she says after a while. "We should give that address book to the team. Maybe they can get something out of it.

\- Maybe," he says with a dubious tone. "But I think the phone has a better chance of holding significant information.

\- What phone?

\- The one I found in Bertram's car, along with the map of California and the address book.

\- You didn't tell me about the phone!"

 _Ah, yes. The full disclosure thing. Right._

"Well I'm sorry," he says, half-wincing, half-playful. "As you know, there was a lot going on."

She rolls her eyes again – she's doing that a lot tonight – but stays quiet. He can see her thinking, mulling things over in her mind, trying to make sense of what happened in the last twenty-four hours.

"Who was that in the car, do you think?" she asks suddenly, voice far away.

He shrugs.

"Probably a John Doe. That's why he had the bomb. He didn't want to frame me at all – my guess is he was planning on faking his death, just like we did with Rigsby last year.

\- That's not very creative of him," she says, bemused.

"No, but it's effective. If you hadn't been there to stop him, it would have worked, too."

Silence.

Then –

"I wanted to tell you," he says, biting his lip slightly. "I didn't want you with me yesterday, and I – I didn't think I _needed_ you, but – it turns out, I do. So – thank you Lisbon."

She's touched – he can see it in the way she curves her neck, in the way she averts her eyes, in the way her lips curl on themselves without her consent.

And she doesn't say a word – maybe she doesn't trust her own voice – but her hand finds his own on his knee, and clasps it, and holds on.

He smiles.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Fate**_


	9. Fate

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** As of today, "Chasing Storms" is officially my most reviewed fanfiction. I cannot tell you how much it makes me happy. Thank you so much for your unending support, for reading and liking and commenting on this story. It means a lot to me. (Et merci également aux francophones qui lisent cette histoire !) **  
**

 **Warning:** Fluff is like sugar: sweet, addictive and ultimately very bad for your health.

* * *

 **Chapter 09 - Fate**

The second time they stop for coffee, Lisbon comes back with a bemused expression.

"That cashier had an odd look on his face," she says, getting back behind the wheel – she refused each time he suggested they switch.

"What kind of look?

\- I don't know. Like he was scared or something. He didn't say a word to me, kept staring."

He frowns.

"I think maybe we should stop for tonight," he says as she starts driving. "Think over our next move. Check the news, see if we need to – I don't know, dye our hair or something.

\- You think they're looking for us _publicly?_ "

She looks at him sharply. He shrugs.

"Wouldn't be surprising.

\- But – _on what grounds?_ We did nothing wrong!"

 _Yet_ , is the word hanging heavily between them.

"Come on Lisbon, you know better than that," he says, slightly frowning. "Three days ago I contacted five men, one of them wanted by the FBI, and invited them far away from Sacramento for a meeting that ended with everybody being sent to the hospital or arrested. Haffner and Stiles are in custody, Smith is dead, we have no idea what happened to Bertram and McAllister – as far as we know, they went back to work as usual, and what stories are they spreading around, I wonder? You and I didn't show up at work today, and now we just had to call the Fire Department to my house because _one of our guests_ left a bomb that conveniently exploded while we were close to it – not to mention destroyed a dead body that, if I'm right, will leave _just enough_ DNA around my property to make them think of murder. Even if they aren't spreading tales of our misgivings, don't you think we look suspicious?"

She appears to be shell-shocked – enough so that she stops the car on the side with jerky movements.

" _Crap!_ We have to tell them the truth!

\- It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

She opens her mouth to speak – or more probably yell at him – then seems to think better of it. After a few deep breaths, she rubs a spot between her eyes.

"You already knew something like that would happen. That's why you didn't want to go back to the CBI with Cho this morning.

\- I didn't _know_ ," he says – she glares, and he raises his hands in defence. "I _suspected_ , which is different. But, yes. What he's doing now, what _Red John_ is doing now – hurling fire and brimstone on our heads as soon as we got too close – it's what _I_ would do if I was in his position."

She starts the car again, looking tired. Silent.

"Maybe I'm wrong," he says softly. "But I think it would be safer if we assumed that, as of this moment, we are on the run.

\- Fine," she sighs. "But not until we have proof they're really looking for us. Let's find a diner somewhere and check the news."

 _Stubborn, as always._

"We'll need to contact Cho in the morning," she says after a moment. "Change phones just in case, maybe get some burners. And give Van Pelt that phone you found in Bertram's car. Maybe she'll even make something of that address book.

\- She can have it. I memorised it earlier.

\- Of course you did," she mutters.

And he grins a little, because in that answer there's a hint of Annoyed Lisbon. Good. She's still operational. Still with him.

"We should sleep a little first before making plans.

\- I'm not tired. I slept all day!

\- You slept four hours, and we had a very emotional day," he reminds her. "And if they didn't put an APB on us yet, they will soon. Better rent a room now, when the search may not be widespread.

\- The hypothetical search," she reminds him, glancing at him sideways.

"Hypothetical," he bows his head, smiling a little. "Let's go. It'll be safer than a diner anyway."

They stop at the next small town, where he quickly points her to a place where they can pay cash, give no names – a place he knows from before his marriage to Angela, and isn't _that_ a depressing reminder of how much time has passed since. She stays in the car while he goes inside – because he knows how to charm and distract people better than her, and because he doesn't want them to be seen together anyway.

Just in case they're looking for him alone.

Just in case she can still save save her career – save _herself_ – by leaving him behind.

Just in case he can still give her the option.

"Here we go," he says, getting back in. "Room 21C. It's on the other side of the building."

The short walk from the parked car to the room is just enough to make him realise how dead on her feet Lisbon is. She doesn't even protest the fact he only booked one room – nor, as they get inside, only one _bed_.

There's a couch, at least.

"Go shower first," he says.

"You sure?

\- Go."

That she doesn't put up a fight cements his first impression. When he hears the water running against the wall, he sits on the edge of the bed and opens the television, switching to news channel. It doesn't take long for him to find what he was looking for – and the sight of his house crawling with police officers is enough for him to break a sweat.

It looked exactly like that when, ten years ago, he found Angela and Charlotte.

"... The small and peaceful population of Malibu is still on high alert after an explosion occurred at 7 PM this evening on a private property. The cause of the blast is believed to be an explosive device placed in an unmoving vehicle parked near the beach-front property on Cedar Street. Only one victim confirmed for now, their identity yet undisclosed. The search for Patrick Jane, owner of the bombed Malibu property, and Agent Teresa Lisbon from the California Bureau of Investigation as persons of interest in this case, as well as what was previously thought to be an unrelated shooting earlier in an Urgent Care Facility, is still ongoing."

 _Interesting._

A spike of guilt makes him wince. He doubts Lisbon will see it the same way.

She comes out of the bathroom ten minutes later, all rosy skin and wet hair, clad in Angela's sweatpants and an old t-shirt of his. At least she looks refreshed – tired still, but it's nearly midnight, so that's to be expected.

"Scoot over," she says, making him smile as she sits near him on the bed. "You should take a shower too – would do you a lot of good."

He nods – somehow finding it hard to look away. She really has lovely shoulders.

"I saw the news," he says. "As I thought, they are looking for us – as persons of interest for the shooting in the hospital and the explosion at my house."

She rubs her face in her hands.

"At least it's not a man-hunt," she says with a sigh.

"Yet."

She just stays there silently, rubbing that spot between her eyes and staring at the bed's cover – or maybe at his hands. He's not quite sure.

"I'm sorry," he says after a while.

"What for?

\- If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't be in the middle of this mess."

She laughs – it's a bitter sound.

"Didn't we already have that conversation once?

\- Which one?

\- The one where I tell you I knew you were trouble the day I met you, and that I've accepted a long time ago that one day, you'll make me lose my job. It's just – it's fate, Jane. You can't fight it."

He sits straighter, a grin lurking in the corners of his mouth.

"Is this the same conversation where I ask you why you agreed to work with me in the first place, and where you tell me it's because you genuinely like my antics?"

She swats him – and they laugh, both of them, caught in this friendly banter that comes so easily between them, even in the worst circumstances.

"I never said that," she says, still laughing.

"But you _do_ think it!

\- I do _not!_ You're a walking disaster for law enforcement."

Then she smiles – and that smile has a secret quality that puzzles him for a second, until she opens her mouth again.

"I _do_ , however, genuinely like _you_."

He blinks. Swallows the lump that suddenly threatens to choke him.

"You – you do? I mean – did I hear that right? Did _you_ , Teresa Lisbon, _actually_ tell me that –

\- Shut up, you big idiot," she grins, lightly punching his shoulder. "And go take that shower. I think there's soot in your hair."

Pretending to grin back is easy – he's been doing it for ten years now. Walking away is a bit harder, but still, he manages – even with the chorus of " _coward coward coward_ " going on in his head. At least she's right – the shower is warm, comforting, and does him a lot of good. And if he makes sure to take special care in washing his hair, who will know?

When he gets out, he isn't surprised to find her asleep over the blankets. She must have tried to stay awake – no doubt with the intent to fight with him a little over who gets to sleep on the couch – but her tiredness made her close her eyes. The rest, as they say, is history.

"Hey. Let's get you under those blankets," he whispers, pushing her shoulder a little.

She yawns, rolls over – and he's just quick enough to stop her from falling over the edge. He laughs. Better admit defeat. At least there's spare blankets in the closet – he was planning on using them himself, but it won't be the first time he snuggles on a couch in his jacket alone.

 _I like you too, you know_ , are the words he wants to say – but doesn't – as he wraps the spare blanket around her.

 _I like you very much._

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Ghost**_


	10. Ghost

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Honestly, this is getting so cheesy I seriously considered taking a break and waiting until tomorrow to rework the chapter and remove all traces of – well, cheese. But then I read it again and laughed so hard I couldn't rob you of that experience. So, here it is: the live results of what sleep deprivation can do to my brain.

 **Warning:** Fluff left unattended may turn to cheese with the right amount of silliness. Effects on health are unknown. Beware. **  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 10 - Ghost**

She wakes up in a cocoon of warmth – peaceful, happy, and utterly confused.

She quickly regains her bearings – berating herself for falling asleep so quickly. The bed is comfortable, if unfamiliar – no lumps bruising her sides or scratchy sheets irritating her skin, and it seems to be free of bedbugs too, which she admittedly had feared when she saw what kind of hovel Jane had planned to use as temporary hideout. For a moment, she finds herself tempted to burrow back under the blankets and laze out a little more, but then she catches sight of the clock – and as soon as she realises it's half past eight already, she knows she won't be able to sleep anymore.

Yawning and stretching, she sits up – and immediately curses when she realises she slept _over_ the bed's blankets. Where does this new one comes from? And of course, the answer is easy to figure out as soon as she lay eyes on Jane, asleep on the couch, curled up on himself with his jacket half-thrown from his shoulders.

He looks cold.

 _Idiot._

She tiptoes to his side and wraps the blanket around him – at least so he can warm himself up a bit before he wakes up. Then, denying herself the urge to stay beside him and watch him sleep for a while – _how creepy would that be?_ – she grabs the heavy phone on the bedside table and walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Goes on with her morning routine – relieves herself, washes her hands, brushes her teeth and hair, put some make-up.

Then calls Cho.

"Hey," he says as soon as she identifies herself. "We have to meet.

\- Yeah," she sighs. "We saw the news yesterday. Can you gather the team together for lunch? We're near Sacramento, we can be around town in one hour.

\- Sounds good. Where?"

She thinks it over for a moment. Their usual spot at O'Mally's won't be safe this time around – and even if it was, they could be spied on too easily. They need an open space, somewhere they can be sure hasn't been bugged already, somewhere they won't be overheard.

And speaking of overhearing...

"Meet us at that little square on the corner of 6th at eleven," she says curtly.

"Okay," Cho says, then immediately hangs up.

Good. He understood.

When she comes back in the room, Jane is awake – stretching his back with a faint wince.

"Tonight you're sleeping in the bed," she says with a glare.

"Good morning to you too!" he grins, still a bit rough from sleep.

He gets up, walks to her and, warm from his not-so-extended time under the blanket, pulls her in a hug. She blinks, pats his back lightly – her hand resting on his shoulder blade awkwardly when he doesn't let go.

 _Where is this coming from?_

"I'm very happy to see you," he says with an odd chipper lilt to his voice, still hugging her. "You're a lovely sight in the morning, Lisbon."

She rolls her eyes. This is just Jane being Jane.

"Very lovely," he adds, nose in her hair.

 _Nothing to worry about._

Still, she watches his face closely as he finally releases her – just in case she'd find traces of a nightmare lingering in his eyes.

"I talked to Cho," she says once she's sure he's fine. "We have a meeting with the team at eleven.

\- Good," he says, glancing at the clock. "Better leave soon then, we have some things to do before we ambush them.

\- We won't _ambush_ them!"

He grins, escapes the hit she was aiming at his shoulder, then locks himself in the bathroom while she packs their things. In very little time, they are on the road again, driving toward Sacramento until Jane tells her to take an exit on her left. When she sends him a questioning glance, he shrugs.

"We need burners," he says. "I know a guy."

The guy turns out to be a teenager selling illegal fare on the streets. She groans.

"I had no idea you had such extended acquaintances," she says dryly when he comes back with five small black phones in his hands.

"Occupational hazard," he grins. "When you're a conman, you want to keep an ear to the streets in case you need to make a hasty exit."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't comment.

"I'm famished," he suddenly says.

"It's ten, nearly time to meet the team. Can you wait?

\- We didn't eat yet, and I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?"

She frowns, then realises she is.

"Fine. What about picking up some sandwiches for everyone? You could eat some fruits in the meanwhile.

\- A _pick-nick!_ What an _excellent_ idea! I'm surprised you were the one to suggest it. Ah, we'll make a country girl out of you yet..."

His childish enthusiasm makes her smile, and soon they find themselves munching on apples, sitting on a bench near a pretty little fountain, waiting for Cho, Van Pelt and Rigsby to join them.

As soon as they do, she and Jane stand up.

"Hey Boss," says Van Pelt with a little wave.

"Where are we really going?" asks Cho, always quick and to the point.

"On a _pick-nick!_ " says Jane with delight, taking charge of their little group. "Come on."

He guides them to a park two streets further. Then, choosing a spot right in the middle of a grass field, he sits and grins – clearly waiting for them to follow suit. When all of them are sitting awkwardly on the ground – except Jane of course, who seems as comfortable as a kid – he passes away the sandwiches they picked up earlier and bites into his with gusto.

"You're in trouble," says Cho. "They put a rush on the DNA found at your place. It's McAllister's.

\- That's – it must be a mistake," she says, frowning. "I saw the body, it wasn't McAllister's at all.

\- Changing the information in the database isn't easy," says Van Pelt, worrying her lip. "It had to be an inside job. Are you sure it wasn't him? What happened anyway?

\- One of the suspects stole a body from the morgue," says Jane, and she frowns but doesn't interrupt him. "When we saw it, it was leaking a lot of fluids – that doesn't happen even after a day spent cooking in a car, unless it was frozen beforehand. It was hidden with a bomb under a blanket on the back seat. The bomb went off, no more body to identify except via limited traces of DNA, _et voilà_ , framed for murder.

\- Well, it's a disaster," says Rigsby, raising his eyebrows. "You made the good call in staying away – some people are starting to say you're a cop-killer," he adds, looking at Jane. "They talk about how Wainwright's death and you being back at the CBI right after wasn't a coincidence.

\- That's ridiculous!" she interrupts, outraged. "Jane was in as much danger as Wainwright that day! And he nearly lost a hand!

\- _Fingers_ ," mutters Jane, wiggling his left hand – but nobody pays him any mind.

"We know, Boss," says Van Pelt. "It's only coffee room talk for now anyway.

\- It won't stay that way for long though," says Cho. "They're trying to hide it, pass it as just needing your version of the facts, but they're looking for you. And Bertram still hasn't shown up, that's bound to make noise very soon.

\- They've started talking about you too, Boss," says Rigsby again. "When they interrogated Haffner, he talked about how you told him Jane thought he was Red John, and now they're lumping you together in everything because they say you and Jane are a team."

For a moment, all eyes are on her – and the only sound she can hear is the pulsing of blood in her veins.

"Well, we _are_ ," she says, slightly choked. "We're _partners_."

The look Jane sends her is so intense she cannot hold it for long.

"Anyway – here," she says, grabbing the burner phones in the bag between them. "We got this for you, just in case. Did Cho tell you about Jane's theory?

\- The conspiracy?" says Rigsby, frowning. "Yeah, he did. It's pretty scary stuff, but it makes sense. I mean, too much happened that we can't explain, right?

\- Right. So we'll need to stay in touch," she says. "We'll use those to contact you, and you do the same whenever you get news for us. Don't use them for anything else and always keep them on you.

\- Here," adds Jane, reaching out to Van Pelt, pushing a small plastic bag in her hands. "I found this in Bertram's car when I was snooping around. There's a phone and an address book – do you think you could gather information about it?

\- Easily," she smiles. "What are we looking for?

\- Anything. There's only one number in the contact list, so this isn't his usual phone. I want to know what he uses it for. Who he calls with. Everything.

\- You think this is about the conspiracy?" asks Rigsby.

"I'm pretty sure of it. Ninety percent sure."

They stay silent for a while, taking everything in. Then Cho glances at his watch and gets up.

"Better go back or we'll be late. We'll call you as soon as we have information.

\- Oh, by the way," she says, brushing blades of grass from her trousers. "Did they release Haffner yet?

\- They did," says Van Pelt. "Did you want us to bring him back in?

\- No. But – well, we used his car to come here, so I was wondering if one of you could tell him where to get it back.

\- What are we going to use to get back to the hotel then?" asks Jane, frowning – and pouting a little, which makes her grin.

"We'll figure something, I'm not worried.

\- You could pick up your own car, Boss," says Rigsby. "It's still here in the parking lot."

But she shakes her head.

"No, they'll figure out we were here. And they might have bugged it. I won't take that chance. Plus..."

Fishing up pen and paper in Jane's pocket – because she knows he always has some – she writes an address and gives it to Cho instead of finishing her previous thought.

"Here. Wait until five this evening, then tell him his car was seen around there, in a motel parking lot. Tell him they didn't tow it yet, so he'd better hurry and pick it up. And if he asks how you got the information, tell him –

\- Tell him Lisbon is sorry and wanted to make it up to him," interrupts Jane, reading over her shoulder and grinning – and of course, _of course_ he guessed what she was up to. "You're right – I wouldn't mind having a talk with him myself.

\- Let's go then," she grins back. "We have things to do before we ambush him."

Only when she sees his delighted smile does she realises she mirrored his own words from this morning.

After saying goodbye to the team, they drive back to the highway in companionable silence. Jane's head is set against the headrest – eyes closed, mouth slack, he looks nearly asleep. But she knows he isn't – that's his thinking face.

She marvels for a moment on the fact she can see which is which now.

"You didn't tell the team about Red John being McAllister," she says softly. "Why?

\- Red John is mine," he answers curtly, crossing his arms defensively on his chest.

And of course that is all the answer she needs. She surprises herself by her own tired acceptance.

"You'll have to drop me somewhere I can get us a car," he suddenly says, making her jump.

"No stealing," she warns him.

He grins.

"I was thinking more along the lines of buying a new one," he says, half-laughing. "But I guess I could steal one, if you ask so nicely...

\- Jane! I'm serious. No. Stealing," she groans – aware she's playing right into his hands but unable to stop herself. "Please keep the illegal acts to a minimum? _Please?_

\- Of course, Lisbon," he says, fully laughing now. "Anything for you."

She rolls her eyes.

"You know," he says, with that odd half-teasing, half-serious tone he gets so often. "We've been working together for so long. You _could_ call me Patrick.

\- We work together, Jane, it would be improper.

\- Only in law enforcement," he protests, then smiles. "Now that we're _actually_ on the run, I think that could warrant a little _impropriety_ , don't you? Oh, turn right here!"

She does, and – _there_ , at the end of the street, there's a car dealer.

Not a pretty one.

"They sell cars," he says, reading her expression correctly. "We need a car. Those are cheap cars."

She just raises her hands – the usual hand gesture that means "I'm washing my hands off this, you're on your own". He smirks – but sobers up quickly, and turns to her instead of getting out.

"I was serious earlier. You never use my given name. Is there a reason?"

She bites her lip.

"I – always assumed that's what your wife called you."

And the stricken expression he gets on his face for a second is enough to make her regret ever saying the words. But they're setting a trend of honesty here, and somehow she feels it even more important to keep that trend in their rare personal moments.

Even if it unearths very literal ghosts between them.

And she's about to apologise, but then he looks down and smiles softly.

"She didn't," he says. "She called me Paddy."

Then he grins – that silly, cheeky, _shit-eating_ thing she often wants to wipe from his face with multiples hits to the nose.

"So _Patrick_ is all yours, if you want it."

And gets out of the car, leaving her gasping like a fish after him, while he merrily whistles a little tune.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Missing**_


	11. Missing

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Nearly late, but we're finally back to our regular program, haha! Thank you to all those of you who sent me a comment on this story, and especially those who guest review because I can't answer directly to you. Every one of them makes me so happy, you have no idea, and I'm very grateful to each of you. Hope you'll enjoy this chapter!  
By the way, it seems FFnet ate the reviews I've got on chapter 10. I've replied to those I've received in my email box, but there may be some missing. So if I didn't answer yours, please accept my apologies, it wasn't for lack of wanting and I will make good on it as soon as the bug is solved.

 **Warning:** Mention of physical child/teen abuse. No graphic description and the mention is very small, but if you feel triggered by talk of scars and burns, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Chapter 11 - Missing**

Driving back to their room alone is harder than she thought.

She's used to him being around now. For three days she hasn't left his side more than a few minutes at a time – and his absence is felt like an uncomfortable itch she can't reach and scratch off her system. She gets distracted by the silence, turns her head toward his empty seat just to jump in alarm until she recalls he _wasn't_ in the car to begin with. Then she rolls her eyes at her own silliness – and gets lost in her thoughts until the cycle starts again.

And again.

 _And again._

She feels understandably tired when she finally gets out of the traffic. Parking the car in front of their door, she quickly gets inside and lets herself fall on the bed. Eyes trailing on the ceiling, she'd want nothing more than to catch a short nap before they meet with Haffner, but she quickly realises that won't be an option – she's feeling restless, nervous, too anxious about the whole situation.

So she gets up, tightens the bed corners, puts the room back in order – with enough efficiency that a stranger could think nobody slept there the night before – and when she gets out of things to straighten, falls back on the bed and opens the television. Jane left it to the news channel last evening, which suits her – and, grabbing a pen and paper, she starts jotting down notes and thoughts about what they learned from the team.

Her grumbling stomach, several hours later, makes her realise Jane hasn't come back yet. Frowning, she picks up her new phone, scrolls down the contacts – smiles a little when she sees the nickname he gave the members of the team – and calls him, ready to chew him up for worrying her.

It goes straight to voice mail.

"What the hell?!"

The wave of anger she feels is as indescribable as powerful – really, at this point, _anger_ isn't even the word for it. _Wrath_ would be better – and still inadequate.

Trying to calm down isn't easy – she closes her eyes, reminds herself that he _might_ have a good reason to close his phone, that it doesn't mean he left her behind as soon as he could. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe he's in a delicate situation where he absolutely cannot answer his phone. One _he didn't tell her about_ because – because –

Gritting her teeth, she grabs her phone again.

"Yeah," says Cho on the other end.

"Have you head about Jane?" she asks, both worry and anger laced through her voice.

"No. But I was about to call you – I gave your message to Haffner earlier, he was in the office for business. He just left in a cab – he'll probably be there in less than an hour.

\- Crap," she mutters. "Well, if he calls you, tell him he better get back soon or I'll – I'll – whatever I do, _he won't like it!_

\- Will do," comes Cho's answer, and she's too hyped up to react to – _or care about_ – the dark humour in his voice before he hangs up.

 _Where the hell is he?!_

She takes several deep breath, clenching and unclenching her hands – then realises there's nothing she can do. Ray is coming over – he won't be long – and she really needs to be prepared. So she does what needs to be done, once again, as she always does.

And waits.

The waiting seems like forever and her hands are getting numb – standing outside behind the corner of the building wasn't perhaps her best idea – but by the time she's ready to call quits, a black cab stops in the parking lot.

And there he is. Ray Haffner, in all the dubious glory of his immaculate suit and trimmed beard.

She waits until he pays the fare and dismisses the cab – they took enough chances going to Sacramento today. Then she comes out, gun steadily pointed on him.

"Don't move!"

He seems startled – but he puts both his hands in the air as soon as he sees the weapon trailed on him.

"Put your weapon on the ground," she adds, closing in on him.

"Teresa, really?" he groans. "I'm having a little _déjà-vu_ here!

\- Do it!

\- Fine, fine!" he says, reaching slowly to his holster.

She watches his every move like a hawk – and as soon as the gun in on the ground, she has him put his hands against the wall before picking it up.

"Are you and Jane together on this?" he asks coldly. "Because I'm getting really tired of this crap! Come on, you know I'm not Red John.

\- I know," she says. "The door's open – get in.

\- _You know?!_ Then why the hell are you –

\- Ray! Less talking, more walking."

He shuts up and, with a glance at her behind his shoulder, obeys. She follows closely, very glad she cleaned earlier – that way, there's nothing around to use against her.

He may not be Red John, but that doesn't mean he isn't dangerous.

"The couch," she says, and he sits without protest.

For a moment she wonders if she should tie up his hands – then decides against it. Better not go overboard – if she keeps this friendly enough, he _may_ agree to keep quiet about this when she releases him.

Maybe.

 _Urgh._

"You know, if you wanted to talk to me, you could have _asked_ ," he says, and she's surprised to hear a note of amusement under the annoyance.

"Problem is, Ray, I don't know how much I can trust you," she says.

He shakes his head.

"Jane's paranoia is rubbing on you, Teresa. Of course you can trust me. I never wanted you any harm.

\- Then do you promise to answer my questions honestly?

\- I guess?" he frowns. "Look, I promise you – if you lower your weapon, I will."

For a moment she stares at him, trying to gauge his sincerity – then nods. There's nothing in his eyes but the truth. She puts her gun back in its holster, then Ray's weapon on the bed beside her – he shifts slightly on the couch, getting in a more comfortable position, but otherwise stays put.

 _Good._

"I'm listening," he says.

"I asked you once, and you didn't answer at that time so I'm going to ask again. Did Visualise send you to work at Elliston Farm around 1988?"

Ray closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, sighing loudly.

"Yeah, they did. But I didn't kill those guys, Teresa. I swear.

\- I know you didn't," she says. "Do you remember who was there with you?

\- It was a long time ago," he says – and averts his eyes.

 _Classic sign of deflection._

"Ray," she warns him. "The truth.

\- I – may remember some," he finally admits. "But you must understand – those people, they are members of my church. And I only spent two weeks there. Couldn't stand the rhythm. So my memory – I mean, most of those guys I didn't see after I left, and the ones I did, well –

\- I know," she says again. "But I need those names, Ray.

\- _Why?_ Why do you need them?

\- Because one of those men is Red John."

He scoffs – then stares when he realises she isn't laughing.

"Come on, you can't be serious.

\- I am.

\- Then what about Jane's theory with – "

And she nods grimly when his eyes widen and he opens and closes his mouth several time in shock – because of course Ray realises who they are talking about. The man is many things, but nobody ever accused him of being an idiot.

"But then that means – did Jane _actually_ kill him?!" he asks when he regains his voice. "I saw the news, Teresa. They said McAllister died in that explosion. He was formally identified!

\- He didn't die," she says. "Someone changed the information in the database to make it look like he was killed to frame us.

\- Of course," he mutters.

"Look, I know it's hard to believe, but," and then she frowns. "But you're not surprised. Why aren't you surprised?"

He has the grace to look sheepish – and uneasy. She frowns further.

"Listen," he says. " _Listen_. I – I've never said anything about this because – it seemed mental and I'm still half-convinced I dreamed the whole thing. But – remember Steve Hannigan? Old school guy, rough around the edges, retired early five years ago?

\- Yeah, I remember Steve. We worked together for a while before Minelli hired Jane.

\- Right. Well, that guy, he liked to drink sometimes. He was always careful not to drink on the job, but he was a bit of an alcoholic.

\- I remember," she repeats.

"So one day he doesn't come to work, and I'm feeling responsible for him because I'm new to this job and he's a member of my team, so I go take a look around his usual haunts. And I find him sitting at the bar drinking and crying, so I'm worried, ask what's going on. He's really drunk, I've never seen him like that, and he starts telling me he hit a guy with his car the night before on the corner of Linden and Stonegate, and ran instead of trying to help."

She frowns.

"I've never heard about that. When was it?

\- Well, that's where it becomes weird, see?" says Ray, looking tired. "I told him I'd have to arrest him, and he told me he knew, that he was just trying to work out the guts to come clean. So I tell him I'm giving him twenty-four hours to sober up and go to Minelli – it was still Minelli back then – and if he doesn't, I'll have to report him. He agrees, I go back to work, a day passes. The next day he comes to work chipper as a squirrel, acting like nothing happened at all. So I confront him."

There's a sickening feeling in her stomach. She knows where this is going.

"And he says he's sorry, he has no idea what I'm talking about, I must have dreamed it, and _here, have some doughnuts_. So I spend some time looking through the hits-and-runs, the accidents reports – and there's nothing. Nothing at all. For a time I thought, maybe he found a way to erase the records, but then – well, Steve couldn't have done that alone, and I had a feeling I'd better... forget about it. Know what I mean?"

Ray is twisting his fingers, looking nervous – acting as if he expects not to be believed. But she knows him, and she knew Steve, and after the last few days, nothing surprises her anymore.

"Did you ever see if he had a tattoo?" she asks.

"Yeah, yeah he did," he says, eyes widening. "Three dots on his shoulder, just like Bertram, Smith and – yeah. You think it's linked?

\- Jane and I think it's sort of a sign – membership sign. Some kind of secret society in law enforcement that helps Red John... somehow. We don't really know yet how it works, but – there was too many things going wrong in that case for it to be a coincidence.

\- If Tom – _McAllister_ was – I mean, _is_ – really Red John... Well, it makes sense.

\- What makes sense?"

Ray is worrying his lip, something she never saw him do in all those years of working alongside each other.

"Well, the tattoo. Tom – sorry, I used to call him that, he was very insistent –

\- It's fine," she says. "Go on.

\- Well, when we were together in Elliston Farm, he didn't have one. But he had – scars. On his shoulder."

With his right hand, he touches his left shoulder, looking slightly sick.

"He never told us what happened, and obviously didn't like to talk about his past – and, well, he was older and a bit scary, so I never asked. But it looked like – cigarette burns or something. I have my share of those kind of scars too, so I figured – we were all a bit messed up back then, and many of us had good reasons to be. Wouldn't be surprising if he reclaimed those scars to turn them into a personal achievement."

 _Where_ _– the – hell – is – Jane?!_

She gets up, puts pen and paper before him.

"Write me those names. Please?"

Ray nods, still looking shaken, and writes down a dozen names while she stands near the window, watching the darkened sky – hoping her partner comes back quickly. But there's no sign of Jane anywhere, and soon she finds herself forced to turn back her attention to her guest.

"Here," he says, giving her the list. "Just – don't tell them I – that list, it'll be considered a betrayal for Visualise. So –

\- Don't worry, Ray," she says, smiling a little for the first time since the beginning of their meeting. "I'll make sure nothing can be traced to you. Just – be careful, okay? And I'm sorry for the – you know, the ambush business."

He grins back.

"Don't worry about it. Are you giving me back my gun?"

She does, and watches him go – taking back his car, waving a little before leaving the parking lot and disappearing in the evening traffic.

Then she calls Van Pelt.

"Hey Grace. I have a list of twelve names here I need you to check.

\- Sure. What are we looking for?

\- Those people were all members of Visualise in the late 80's. I need you to check out who left the group, who now works into law enforcement – and current addresses if they still live in California. Jane and I may need to pay a visit to some of them."

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Drowning**_


	12. Drowning

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** I'm so sorry this comes so late! I had an amazing day with a friend today, but that made for very little writing time and this chapter needed to be done just so. I hope you'll like it.  
On another note, FFnet is still eating your reviews, but I do get them (or most of them I hope) in my email box. So don't worry, they are not lost and I still enjoy every one of them. Thank you! For now I'm going to sleep because it's very late, but I'll answer them for sure in the morning.

* * *

 **Chapter 12 - Drowning**

It's already dark when he comes back to the room.

Hands full, he tries knocking with his elbow – but Lisbon must have been spying by the window, because she opens the door just a moment before he has a chance to make contact.

For a few seconds, her worried eyes roam all over him, making sure he's fine – and just as he's about to grin and tease her about giving him the once-over, she closes the door in his face.

"Lisbon?"

He sighs. He knew this was going to spell disaster.

"Please open the door. Please?"

No answer. He puts the bags down, knocks properly.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you. The phone died on me!"

Still no answer.

"I come bearing food?"

 _Ah-ha!_

The door opens a crack – just enough so that she can pass her hand. Clearly, if he lets her, she'll take her offering without saying a word to him – nor letting him come in. He bites his lips, trying not to laugh. That would be very bad for him.

"Come on, Lisbon," he says, pushing on the door a little. "Let me in. It isn't safe to stay outside."

The door finally opens – she's already turning her back on him, and as he walks in and brings his supplies inside, she sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, and glares at him. He puts the bag with take-out in her hands.

"Here. It's Chinese. I thought it would do us some good to eat something hot tonight."

Still glaring at him, she opens it. He slowly sits on the couch, feeling half like trying to appease a wild animal, half as if he was trying to get back on his wife's good side. Except Angela didn't have a gun, and most of the time her anger was very short-lived – plus, well, he _did_ have more options in the way of bribery and appeasing techniques.

Somehow he doesn't think Lisbon would react well if he just started kissing her out of nowhere.

Actually he's pretty sure that, in her current mood, she'd slap him or punch him in the nose.

"I'm sorry," he tries again.

She bites in an egg roll, still glaring, still silent, and he winces – her body language makes it clear she's like to do the same with his head.

"I was worried sick," she says coldly once she's finished with the egg roll.

"I'm really, truly sorry.

\- Where were you?"

And he winces again – because he's pretty sure his excuses, while very real, will sound flimsy to her ears.

"It turns out I, ah, didn't have enough cash to buy a car right away, so I had to go and make some. By the time I realised I'd be late for the meeting with Haffner, the phone had died on me – low battery I think. And – well, I didn't take the time to memorise your new number."

Her blank face is pretty intimidating – he's actually impressed by the depth of emotion she can communicate with such little expression.

"You mean to tell me," she says, and this time the wince becomes a cringe. "You mean to tell me you went off _God knows where_ to fleece some people out of cash –

\- And car! Being on the run is pricey business," he adds quickly – aware he isn't helping himself any, but still, that's an important precision.

\- ... cash _and_ car, and that it didn't occur to you _to call me_ before changing your plans?"

She takes a deep breath and releases it with a shudder. And suddenly he finds himself worried – not for himself, but for her, because she seems way too upset about this.

"Jane, at first I thought you decided to leave me behind and go after Red John alone.

\- I told you I wouldn't," he protests. "We talked about that!

\- You don't exactly have the best track records on doing as you're told! But you know, I could deal with that – I always do," she says, still breathing heavily. "But then Ray showed up, and you still weren't there, and I began thinking – maybe something happened to him. Maybe he's in trouble. Maybe he's _in a ditch_ somewhere, bleeding off, dying from a – or maybe he's been _mugged_ and _was sent to the hospital_ , and – "

She stops herself from talking – overwhelmed. And he was planning to defuse the situation with their usual banter, but now he realises this may not be the best approach.

"You were really worried," he says slowly.

" _Of course I were, you jerk!_ "

She throws her chopsticks at him, but misses – and in the next moment he sits beside her, without touching but close enough so that she'll feel his body heat.

"Teresa, I need you to understand something," he says, voice serious and quiet. "I need you to understand that, when I promise something, I don't go back on my word. Ever, if I can prevent it. That is one of the very rare things I hold true."

Letting her head fall on his shoulder is easy, a natural movement – but not one she usually does, and it lets him know, without a word, without a doubt, just how worried she was.

Just how much she cares.

"I promised you we were in this together. _I promised_. And that means I won't leave you behind. Not unless I can prevent it, and not unless you wish for it.

\- I don't wish for it," she says, voice muffled by the fabric of his suit.

He smiles.

"Think you can learn to trust me?" he says lightly, and she laughs a little, raises her head – doesn't look him in the eyes, but that was to be expected.

"Yeah," she says, picking up the take-out box. "I can try, at least.

\- Trying is good," he says, grinning. "And speaking of trying, I'd like to try those egg rolls."

She laughs for real this time, and he finds himself sighing in relief.

 _Crisis averted._

They banter lightly as they eat, and she tells him about her meeting with Haffner. At first he finds himself miffed that she revealed so many things to him – but as she reminds him, sometimes a little well-played honesty goes a long way in securing information.

"So what's all this?" she asks, with a hand gesture to the remaining bags by the door.

"Ah, this! Well," he says, fishing up a small box of hair bleach. "We'll have to leave this room early tomorrow morning, just in case – you may trust Haffner not to reveal our little _hideout_ , but I don't. If he gives up anything, by purpose or accident, they'll be hot on our trail, so I was thinking we should maybe _disguise_ ourselves for a while."

Her eyes go from the box to his face, and to the box again.

"I'm not putting _that_ in my hair," she says, bemused. "I'd look terrible as a blonde.

\- I think you'd look fine, as usual," he grins. "But I was thinking more along the lines of making you a redhead. Would go better with your skin tone."

She rolls her eyes, but her smile gives away her pleasure at hearing the compliment.

"Fine," she says. "But we'd better do that once we find a new place instead of right now. That way, if someone comes here asking question, there'll be no witness of our new – _hairdos_.

\- Good thinking," he nods.

They finish their meal, then go about their usual night-time routine – if they are to leave early the next morning, better get as much sleep as possible before then. Once again, he finds himself happily slipping into familiar territory – brushing their teeth side by side, setting the spare blanket on the couch, bickering about who gets to sleep in the bed this time. Or rather, on who gets to sleep on the couch – each of them wanting to leave the bed to the other.

He lets her win, just to see her victorious smile before flicking the lights off.

And grins when, after a while, he hears her mutter and shift uncomfortably on the lumpy cushions.

"Having trouble sleeping?" he asks, laughter in his voice.

"I have no idea how you managed to even doze last night," she groans. "Each time I turn over, there's a new spring poking my backside.

\- Yes, I discovered that peculiarity when I tried a face-down position," he says dryly.

He could swear he actually heard her giggle.

"Want to come over?" he asks, trying for flippant, as if neither the proposition nor her answer had any importance.

"Uhm. No. Better not?

\- That sounded like a question," he smiles.

She mutters something he cannot hear.

"Come on," he says, lifting himself on his elbow. "The bed's big enough for two."

She shifts slightly, and even without seeing her, he knows she's considering it. With a grin, he lets himself fall back on the bed.

"No funny business! I'll keep to my side, you keep to yours, we both have a good restful night, nobody gets their backside poked."

Silence.

" _By the springs_ , Lisbon. My, what a dirty mind you have."

She laughs again, carefree, delightful – and he can hear her getting up.

Then the window explodes with a loud bang.

Half-panicked, he tries to get up, but ends up entangled in the sheets and falls on the other side of the bed. A jolt of terror seize him when he realises he cannot hear Lisbon. With an abrupt gesture, he tears the blanket in his haste to free himself – right as a second gunshot hits the couch, sending stuffing pieces flying everywhere.

"Lisbon!" he yells.

"Get down, Jane!"

He obeys, floored by relief – even if he tried to get up, his limbs are shaking so badly he wouldn't be able to stand. _She's alive._ Breathing shallow, he hides behind the bed as Lisbon finds her gun in the dark and shoots back once. Twice.

Then everything falls silent again.

"I think I saw someone run away. Are you hurt?" she asks, still by the door, peering through the broken window.

"I'm fine," he says, voice roughened by emotion. "Are you?

\- They didn't hit me," she answers, and he breathes in relief again.

A hand on the bed, he tried to get up.

"We need to leave," he says. "Pick up your things. I'm not staying here a minute more than I have to."

 _I'm not letting you stay here a second longer._

They pack in the dark quickly, still shaking in the aftermath of the shooting. He stares at the couch before they leave – he couldn't guess the calibre of the shots, but he doesn't care about that. What matters is there's a hole right where Lisbon's head was just minutes ago.

She came very close to be killed, and that fact is enough to send him into dry heaves.

"Jane?"

She's still alive. He needs to concentrate on that, otherwise he'll lose it. Lose himself.

"Jane, you coming?"

With shaking hands, he wipes his mouth, then his eyes – forces himself to take several deep breaths before following her outside, in the new car he won earlier from a naive, easy-to-fleece mark. Unlocking the doors, he slips behind the wheel and, as soon as she's sitting near him, starts driving toward the highway.

For a long time they stay silent, shell-shocked by the violence and the abruptness of what happened.

"Where are we going?" she finally asks him – and she's trying to sound like her old tough self, but he can hear every crack of vulnerability and confusion in the breaths she takes.

"Remember that place we used as a safe house to hide in last year before meeting with Lorelei?

\- Uh-huh.

\- It's still safe."

The warehouse is cold – nearly unbearably so. For a moment he's tempted to go back to the car and sleep there. But he had some time to arrange this place since last year, and he knows with a little effort they can get better sleeping quarters than the back of a car.

"Hey. Help me?" he asks.

She's rubbing her arms, eyes half-wild, but nods and comes to his side without a word. Together they pull a mattress from behind a shelf in the back, and while he goes in search of sheets and blankets, she finds a small electric heater. As soon as she spots an outlet on the wall, she plugs it in – and the sigh of relief she lets out does funny things to his stomach.

"Here. Let's put these on, then we can sleep a bit," he says, holding all the supplies they need to make this a real – albeit camping-style – bed.

With the heater at their feet, it feels like heaven once they get under the blanket. But she's staying back by the edge of the bed, unmoving – and that won't do.

Because she nearly died, and every time he looks at her, he feels like he's loosing foot in an ocean of dread.

So without warning, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her body to his. She stiffens – but he only holds on tighter.

"Please," he whispers. "I need this. I need to know you're alive – to _feel_ you alive, breathing in my ears. Don't pull away from me. _Please_."

She doesn't answer, but relaxes minutely in his arms – and with a shuddering breath, he allows himself the same.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Wrong**_


	13. Wrong

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Good news: the reviews problem seems to be over! So let me thank all of you once again for your nice comments, and a special one also to those of you who added my story (or myself!) as follows and favourites. It means a lot to me and I'm very grateful. Hope you'll enjoy today's chapter!

 **Warning:** This chapter deals once again with acute anxiety, mental confusion and distress. If any of those things trigger you in any way, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Chapter 13 - Wrong**

Waking up together isn't as awkward as he thought.

In fact, it's pretty great. Lisbon's sleeping body is like warm water in solid form – comforting and relaxing and exactly what he needs. And she smells good – although how she managed that is impossible to guess. With last night's shooting, she should've been stinking of fear and burnt gunpowder – the actual one used to fire guns, not the green tea he likes to drink sometimes.

Not that burnt tea leaves would smell all that good really.

The point is moot anyway.

Still a bit drowsy, he buries his nose in her hair and takes a deep breath. Hmm. No, her scent is more like coffee and brown sugar and cinnamon and hints of something –

Something _rusty._

That can't be right.

He opens his eyes and releases his grip on her – and she rolls over, falling against the mattress like a puppet with cut strings, unmoving, and her back is _covered in blood_.

" _Lisbon! No!_ " he screams, his mind a jumble of dread and fear and horror and _Angela and Charlotte's cut opened bodies and blood everywhere and not again not Lisbon please not again I can't do this I won't please no_ –

He barely realises there's a hand on his cheek, fingers in his hair, until she sits up and brings his head flat against her chest – and he can hear her heart beating, quickly and steadily.

"It's okay Patrick, it's alright, everything's fine, _shhh_ , it's alright, everything's okay," she repeats quietly to his ear, and time stops making sense because suddenly his world is reduced to Lisbon's heart and Lisbon's voice and the gut-wrenching sobs he just can't hold back.

Calming himself down takes a long time – longer than he would like, because of his fear triggering shame triggering fear again. But she helps – and before he knows it, he can close his eyes, breathe deeply and listen to her heart just a bit more.

"Your – your back, it's – covered in blood," he whispers, shivering.

His teeth are chattering and he doesn't know how to stop it.

"It must be from the broken window last night," she says, voice soothing. "Don't worry, it's just scratches. I don't even feel it."

They stay silent for a few minutes.

"Is that what triggered this?" she asks quietly. "Blood on my back?

\- I thought you were dead."

She sighs in relief – and that puzzles him, but then a fresh wave of shame rolls over him when he realises he woke her up with this breakdown. That couldn't have been the best way to emerge from dreamland.

"You scared me," she says.

"You scared me too!" he laughs faintly.

Her fingers are still trailing through his curls, and he closes his eyes again. He doesn't want to get up.

"You okay?" she asks, and he can hear both smile and hints of worry in her voice.

"Yeah," he answers quietly. "Sorry.

\- Don't be. I've been a wreck these past few days and you've always been there to catch me when I fall. The least I can do is give _you_ support when you need it."

She drops a kiss on the top of his head. He smiles – and he knows it's a fragile, shaken thing. But he finds himself really enjoying her caring side.

"Aren't we both a sight," he sighs.

Her fingers stop moving after a while and rests on his shoulder – he takes it as a sign that it's time to get up. Trying not to feel a pang of loss when he stops hearing her heartbeat, he smiles at her and gets up.

There's dried speckles of blood on the front of his pyjamas. He shudders.

"Let's find a place to wash out," he says. "Your back is a mess – you need to dress it. Prevent infection. We also have to use the dye I bought yesterday.

\- Jane.

\- And find a new place to stay. From now on, we have to be on the move.

\- Jane!

\- New town each day. At least we're far from Sacramento already.

\- _Patrick!_ "

He stops and blinks, looks at her.

"Breathe," she says.

"You called me Patrick.

\- "Jane" wasn't getting your attention. You were babbling. _Breathe_ – we're safe for now. We can take our time. I still need to call the team, check up with Van Pelt about the list, and I'd rather do it from here so we won't be overheard."

He's still blinking.

" _You called me Patrick_ ," he repeats – very slowly.

She frowns.

"Do it again!" he says quickly, cracking a grin.

She rolls her eyes. He laughs – and then she smiles, which is exactly what he wanted to achieve with his silliness. He doesn't like it when she worries.

But then she gets up, tossing the blankets back on the mattress, and fishes out her phone from the pocket of the trousers she wore yesterday.

"I'm going outside to call the team, there's no signal in here.

\- I'm coming with you," he says immediately.

"You're getting clingy now?" she teases, but he shakes his head.

"I don't think either of us should be alone. It's much too easy to attack one of us while the other is away. If something happened to you and I'm not there..."

He finds himself unable to end that sentence, and the look she gives him is unreadable.

"Fine. Come with me? We both need to hear about it anyway."

So he follows her outside, trying to stop staring at her back – it isn't as terrible as he first thought, some scratches behind her shoulders, one gash across the side of her neck, that's it. All of it dry, small and unimpressive. He's not even sure he'll find traces of it on the seat of his car.

"Three missed calls, all from Rigsby," says Lisbon.

He jumps a bit when she speaks – so focused on his own thoughts, he lost track of reality for a moment there.

"Call him back then," he says, trying for normal. "Put him on speaker."

She nods, already selecting Rigsby's nickname in her list. He's glad she didn't raise her eyes from the device.

"Boss, finally! I tried calling you all morning!" says their teammate at once. "Are you alright?

\- Yeah, we're fine," she says. "I guess you heard about the shooting, then?

\- A shooting? No, I didn't. What happened?"

He frowns.

"What were you calling about if it wasn't about the shooting?" he asks.

"The man-hunt! Didn't you know? They even gave your picture to the media!

\- Lucky we're in Vegas then," he mutters. "How do they justify that?

\- You're officially suspects in Sheriff McAllister's murder – number one suspects.

\- He's not even dead!" glowers Lisbon. "Do you know if the call is nation-wide yet?

\- No, it's confined to California for now. Stay in Vegas, it's safer – you were talking about a shooting? What happened?" asks Rigsby.

While Lisbon explains him the events of the night before, he finds himself thinking something isn't right. Something, in everything that happened until now, doesn't click – so he starts from the beginning, remembering each situation one at a time. McAllister setting off a stun bomb at the meeting, Bertram and McAllister escaping arrest, the murder attempt at the hospital, the dead body in McAllister's car, the explosion at his house, the police looking for them, the meeting with Haffner, the shooting in their motel room, and now the man-hunt...

And then, oh.

 _Of course._

"... so we drove away all night to Jane's warehouse, you know the one we used before meeting with Lorelei Martins last year? We got here just before morning."

She glances his way, obviously to check if he's still alright, and he smiles inwardly – her concern is touching. But then she frowns at him with those squinty, suspicious eyes, and he quickly turns away to conceal his laugh.

"Do you know if Van Pelt made progress on the Elliston Farm list or Bertram's phone?" she asks Rigsby, and good, that means she stopped paying attention to him.

"She sent the phone to the tech lab, fed them a story about a suspect in one of our cases – by the way, Jane, we _really_ miss your insight – but there's nothing back yet. The list though – well. Grace is looking into –

\- What's wrong, Rigsby?" he interrupts. "You were thinking about something.

\- You can do _that_ on the _phone?_ " Rigsby says, sounding impressed.

Lisbon rolls her eyes. He grins.

"Well," continues their teammate. "I got a quick look at it earlier while Grace was working on the first name – and, well, you always say there's no such things as coincidences, right? And one of the names on the list, I mean, I met a guy with the same last name not too long ago. Not the first one though, but – I was thinking, maybe a son?

\- Yes, that's very good!" he says. "Red John's been known to work with more than one generation before – Orville and Dumar Tanner are only one example of it, I'm sure...

\- Yeah, so this police officer, Cordero? It's that guy from SFPD who came and told me about Kirkland's death a few months back.

\- Definitely not a coincidence then," he decides. "Amazing work, Rigsby. Please ask Grace to take a look at him first, will you? And send over the information as soon as you have them. We're looking mainly for addresses, but anything else – career resume, personal information – everything is good."

As soon as the conversation is over, Lisbon turns on him.

"What is going on?

\- I'm pretty sure I have no idea what you're talking about," he says half-teasing, half-truthful.

He truly doesn't know what she has in mind – but he also really enjoys riling her up.

"You have that look," she says. "The one that spells _I just solved the case and am now planning how to turn Lisbon's life into a circus until we catch the killers_. So what is it that you figured out this time?"

He grins.

"I'm impressed," he says. "You're getting very good at this. Really, _very_ good.

\- Stop patronising me and out with it!"

He takes her elbow and gently guides her back into the warehouse. Then he starts picking up the clothes he let on the ground near the rest of their things.

"We are still acting on the basis that everything is linked to Red John and the conspiracy that surrounds him, aren't we?

\- I guess so," she says. "Yes, we are.

\- Then..."

Trousers in one hand, he sends her a teasing look – she turns around immediately, blushing like a tomato, to give him the privacy he needs to change.

"Didn't you find it _odd_ that they seem to both be searching for us – using widespread media, which attracts a lot of attention – _and_ trying to kill us?"

He taps on her shoulder – and when she looks around, he grins and places her own clothes in her hands, then turns to face the wall.

"You think the orders come from different people?" she asks.

He can hear fabric rustling.

"Yes," he nods. "I think Red John is looking for us – well, for _me_ , but you provide good leverage and he's known that for a very long time. Now, _we_ know he's a narcissistic sociopath – he wouldn't want _someone else_ to kill me. He'd want to do it _himself_.

\- So... someone else is trying to kill us," she says. "I'm done, you can turn."

And he does – she's folding the bloodstained t-shirt distractedly, staring at him. A small shiver runs up his back.

"Who would do that?" she asks.

"I – don't know _that_ yet," he says, rubbing his chin. "But if we can figure out the motive, it should lead us right to them."

Then he smiles.

"Ready to go, partner?"

"Let's," she says, smiling back.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Wish**_


	14. Wish

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Today's update is special to me for two reasons. First, this chapter marks a turning point – we are exactly halfway in the story. There's 13 chapters left, and it's starting to get exciting. Second, I just realised this story has reached the 100-reviews mark. People, I have no idea how to express how grateful I am to you. To be honest, I'm a bit overwhelmed – I've been writing fics for nearly 20 years now and this has never, _ever_ happened to me. I very literally broke down in tears when I realised there were three digits on the number of reviews. So, thank you. Thank you so much. Have the longest chapter yet and a double helping of fluff as an expression of my happiness.

 **Warning 1:** This chapter ends in gore and a canon character's death (sorry, had to balance the 2k words of fluff xD). If graphic descriptions of the results of torture trigger you in any way, please stay safe. I will also up the rating for this reason, just in case.

 **Warning 2:** Some of you already know this, but this might be the, uhm, right moment to tell you that in my stories, no character is safe. No villain. No sympathetic bastard. No ally. No member of the team. And no narrator. I have a very GRRM view about this. I can, however, promise you that all deaths will be meaningful and a way to keep the plot going.

I'm sorry. Please don't kill me?

* * *

 **Chapter 14 - Wish**

As soon as they find themselves a new place to spend the night, Jane insists they dye their hair. Reluctant at first when he grins and offers, as a treat, to wash her hair afterwards, she relents when he points out the pure practicality of that arrangement – dyeing each other's hair means, of course less risk of it turning into a messy business, which she really wants to avoid.

They laugh at each other when, after coating Jane's hair with dark goo and her own with bleach, they have to sit for a while with towels on their head – both trying to ignore the fact his chest is bare and she's wearing the bloodstained t-shirt again. Side by side, they watch television in silence for a while – until she can't stand the smell and heat of the products in her hair anymore. Then she asks him to wash it out, which he does happily, replacing bleach with auburn dye and a new towel.

"I'm really not sure about this," she says, facing the mirror with a bemused expression.

"You'll look just fine, Teresa. And you know as soon as this is over, you can go back to your usual shade," he answers, and the quirk at the corner of his mouth comes and goes so quickly she isn't sure if it's a smile or a smirk.

She keeps staring for a while longer, until he puts his hand on her upper arm and smiles – a real one this time. She follows him back to the room.

"Didn't you ever dye your hair as a teen?" he asks as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"We didn't have money for that," she says, taking the couch. "Not that I had any interest for it really. Jimmy though, he tried to use kool-aid when he was eleven to look more like some cartoon character in a show he watched, but he didn't let it sit long enough. He was aiming for vivid green, but it came out a strange swamp colour that washed out the next day, thank God. It was the middle of the 80s, the school threatened to expel him. Plus, it made a mess and the kitchen smelled like apples gone bad for a week. My father was furious.

\- Ah yes, the kool-aid dye," he grins. "Danny did that too – my brother-in-law, remember him? He had those very pale blonde hair when he was a kid, and once he started learning the trade, he decided funky colours would help him step up his act, keep the eye of the public on him – a lot of us carnies did that back then, before having blue or green hair was popular. So, Danny – for a few weeks he sported this vibrant, clearly unnatural, _absolutely fantastic_ cherry red hairdo, and of course I was very jealous so I riled him up about it every time I could.

\- Of course," she laughs. "What happened to make him revert to his natural hue?

\- He decided he wanted to put together an underwater escape act, so he stopped reapplying it when he realised red water wasn't good for show-business. And then the dye started turning pink as it was washing out and he couldn't get it out of his hair fast enough, so he shaved it all."

She cracks up again, and Jane laughs a little before coming to sit by her side again, clearly more comfortable now despite his lack of shirt.

"Why didn't you dye yours, if you wanted to so badly?" she asks, grinning.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't. My own act at that time was still taking advantage of how youthful I looked, so coloured hair was out of the question. I had to keep up that boy-scout image – shorts and neckerchief included.

\- What?" she guffaws.

"Oh yes," he chuckles. "On stage, I was the most innocent, adorable little angel you can imagine – so that no one would accuse such a perfect kid of being a fraud. Off stage, of course, I was a charming scamp.

\- _That_ I can believe," she says. "In fact, it's pretty much still accurate.

\- You find me charming? Why, thank you Lisbon!" he grins.

"The _scamp_ part," she says, knowing her own grin belies any annoyance her words try to convey.

And the fact is, he _is_ charming – alarmingly so, and he knows it, and _he knows_ she knows it too. So instead of letting him further fishing for compliments, she taps his shoulder lightly and stands up.

"Time to take that goop off your head, come on."

He follows, that usual smile on his lips, and she puts the second-to-last towel they bought for that use on the side of the bathtub.

"You can either kneel and put your forehead on the towel, or sit and use it for your neck," she says, all business.

"Oh, I'll kneel before you, Lisbon. Anytime," he grins.

"Damn it, Jane, stop turning all my sentences into dirty innuendos," she sighs, rolling her eyes.

He chuckles and, grabbing the edge to keep his balance, puts out his neck over the bathtub.

"I feel like I'm about to be executed," he sing-songs

"Shut it," she laughs – and doesn't resist hitting his nape lightly with the edge of her hand in a parody of decapitation before removing the towel on his hair.

The shower head isn't movable, so she uses the large glass by the sink to pour warm water on his head. Purplish brown, nearly black dye falls all over the tub – it takes a long time before the water clears. And that suits her, not that she'll ever admit it out loud – because she discovered that morning how much she likes trailing her fingers through Jane's hair, and how much she likes to feel him relax slowly when she does.

She only stops when she realises he's shivering slightly.

"Done! Are you alright?

\- I'm fine," he says, voice strained. "Just – uhm –

\- You must be freezing. Wait a minute, I'll get you something to cover up.

\- No no, that's fine, I – ah, just need a minute to – er."

She frowns, but then he raises his head and she gets a glimpse of his darkened eyes and – _oh_.

Right.

"I'll, uhm, just wait outside," she says. "Sorry, I didn't mean to – I mean, take your time."

His low chuckle follows her out of the bathroom. How is he so calm about this? She feels completely mortified – and, if she's honest with herself, a little bit aroused too. But she never expected Jane to – which was stupid really, because she's seen him when he was in fugue state, and he used to be married, he had a child, which means he once – _at least_ once –

Before she has time to process this new information, he strolls out of the bathroom with a smirk, towel around his neck – and she cannot look him in the eye, cannot look at him at all really, and _how did he even have time to_ – ? She jumps from the bed to the couch, hyper-aware of his presence as he puts on a clean shirt and – _she has to stop looking_.

"Lisbon," he says, amused.

He lets himself fall on the couch beside her – and her first reaction is to scoot over to make sure they don't touch.

Which is ridiculous.

But still doesn't convince her to move back.

"Hey. Look at me.

\- Hmm?"

She turns her head minutely. He's grinning.

"I won't _jump_ you, if that's what you're afraid of.

\- I know that!" she scoffs.

"It's just a mechanical reaction," he says gently. "My neck is sensitive, and it's been a long time since someone touched me like that. I liked it, and my body reacted. I needed a minute to calm down. That's all. Nothing to worry about."

She's pretty sure her face is red right now.

"I didn't mean to – " she squeaks, then stops when she realises how high her voice is. "I'm sorry," she tries again, with better results.

"I'm not," he says, smiling. "It was very enjoyable."

Then he stands up, pulls her to her feet and guides her to the bathroom again.

"What are you doing?!

\- It's your turn," he points out.

"I think I can manage alone," she says, her voice embarrassingly high again.

"Don't be ridiculous. Let me help."

He sits on the edge of the bathtub, on which he already put the last towel, and looks at her pointedly. Feeling awkward, she sits on the ground and drops her hair in the bathtub, exposing her neck – and closing her eyes to avoid having to look at him. The first glass of warm water on her hair surprises her – she was expecting it, but she feels so anxious any foreign touch is enough to make her jump. Then Jane's hands are gently, expertly massaging her scalp, and she takes deep breaths, slowly relaxes – relishing the attention.

After a while she realises Jane's hands stopped moving a moment ago – one of them lightly cupping her cheek, his thumb resting on her temple. Opening her eyes, she finds him looking down at her – and his eyes are so tender, his expression so open it takes her breath away.

"Done," he says huskily.

 _I could kiss you right now_ , she thinks – and she knows he can see it written all over her face, because his eyes are starting to darken again and the pressure of his fingers on the side of her head increases minutely.

 _I really wish I could._

Then she blinks and averts her eyes, and he removes his hand with a barely audible sigh, and the moment is over.

One of their phones is ringing.

"Hi Grace," he says, as she wraps the towel over her wet hair. "Are you calling about Cordero?"

She takes her time in the bathroom, getting herself into dry clean clothes, washing her hands, brushing her teeth – finding her footing again, because emotionally she still feels as if in the middle of a small earthquake.

When she gets back in the room, she spends some time looking away from him, busying herself with mundane tasks again. She's very glad to find a spare blanket in the closet, too, because once again Jane has booked a room with only one bed – _and why does he keep doing that?_

"Alright. Thank you Grace," he says, and she turns to him.

He closes the phone and looks her way – and, yes! Work. Good. Perfect distraction.

"Cordero senior was a member of Visualise until his death three years ago," he says. "But his son isn't a member of the cult and is working as a detective in San Francisco.

\- Does he live in a house? Could he be hiding McAllister?" she asks, frowning.

"It's an apartment, but after a lot of digging around, she found out a shack registered to his father's name in the country just south of Bakersfield. It doesn't belong to Visualise, either, so I'm guessing that's as good as any place to begin the search."

She nods.

"Let's go there tomorrow then. It's just a bit over four hours from here – if we time this right, we could get there by noon.

\- Yes, that's what I had in – _what are you doing?_ "

She blinks, thrown by the sudden change in his voice.

"Turning the couch into my bed? What's the matter with you?

"You are _not_ sleeping on the couch," he says, seemingly on edge. "Last time I let that happen, you nearly got killed!

\- Last time _you let_ – you should have thought of that _before_ booking a room with _only one bed!_ " she says, annoyed.

He closes his eyes, obviously pained.

"Take the bed, then," he says. "If you really don't want to share.

\- It think it's better not," she answers quietly.

For a moment he seems to be about to ask why – but then thinks better of it. He swallows, his throat bobbing up and down, and nods.

"Take the bed," he says again. "I can't let you sleep on the couch – _I_ wouldn't sleep at all."

She could object – she really could, and would in any other circumstances. But she remembers all too well what happened this morning – his chattering teeth, his wild eyes, his hands painfully clenched on her back – and relents.

"Good night, Jane," she says as she closes the lights.

"Good night, Lisbon."

She falls asleep mulling over the sad undertone in his voice.

Neither of them sleep very well. Morning finds them tired and restless, still hyped up from the last few days. Jane's eyes are red and puffy, and she's reminded of the way he looked when she woke him up that day after his week-long retreat in the attic.

It wasn't so long ago, but it feels like ages now.

They eat quickly in the hotel's diner – she doesn't taste anything and, from Jane's weary features, she can see he doesn't enjoy the food either. As they leave, just before he unlocks the car, she takes his hand.

He looks at her, surprise etched on his face.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey yourself," he says back, and smiles when she presses his hand.

"Ready to go back into wanted territory?"

He grins – and she can see the expression is genuine.

 _Good._

"When am I not ready to wreck havoc on the world again?

\- Come on then, partner. Let's unleash you on poor unsuspecting California," she says, releasing his hand and slipping into the driver's seat before he can stop her.

He laughs and, shaking his head, runs to the other side.

She doesn't know what's going on with him, and he isn't quite out of his funk yet – but he's getting there.

She'll get him there.

The four-hours drive is spent mostly in silence. They do crack a joke here and there, just to remind themselves they are still the same, still in this together – but in the end they have much to think over. She has no idea what's going on in Jane's mind, but as for her, she's starting to wonder what they'll find in Cordero's shack. What if Red John is there? What if she has to watch Jane kill him without trying to stop him? Because she won't, she's not naive enough to think there's another way to go about it now. Not with just about the whole of California's law enforcement turned against them because of the whispers of one man.

But can she really watch him kill a man in cold blood?

"You need to turn here," says Jane, fiddling with the GPS.

The road is shadowed with trees growing a wild canopy over their heads. It would be beautiful if it wasn't possibly the lair of a killer – something neither of them can quite forget, even as they admire how everything seems peaceful here. She stops the car a hundred feet from an old shack at the end of the alley.

"This is it," she says. "Ready to go?

\- Yeah," he whispers, features crunched painfully.

"You still have your gun?

\- Of course. You?"

She sends him a glare – as if she'd forget her weapon. He quirks his lips in the shadow of a smile.

They walk toward the house cautiously, Jane taking the lead – and how weird is that? But she doesn't question his need to go first – he told her often enough about his claim on Red John. At least this time she fully has his back.

The door is open.

Just a crack, but that's enough to put her senses on high alert – and by the way Jane's form is coiled, ready to jump at the slightest provocation, she knows he's on the lookout.

They enter.

The floorboards crack under their feet, there's dust everywhere, and she has to pinch her nose to stop herself from sneezing. The air is stale, as if nobody came in for quite some time – but there's footprints in the dirt and all the doors in the small place are open.

Save one.

She brushes her elbow against Jane's back and nods toward it – when she tries to take the lead, he stops her with a firm hand and shakes his head. She glares at him, but he's unmovable – and with an impatient sigh, she pushes him toward the door. They'll have to talk about this later, but now isn't the time.

Jane reaches for the doorknob – and turns it slowly.

A blood red smiling face greats them on the other side.

She can feel her partner stiffening beside her – and she knows her own hands are shaking, but this, she has to do. She has to know. So she gently pushes him out of the way, walks in, ignores the smell of iron and rotting meat, and flicks the lights open.

Then she freezes.

He's tied to a chair, and covered in gore. His head is nearly upside down over the backrest, his silvery hair shimmering under the yellow light bulb, his throat and the large gash across it completely uncovered. His feet are missing toes and she realises, queasy, that she can see most of them littered around the room, stuck to the ground in congealed blood. There's a burn on his cheek, and his bare chest is slashed so badly there isn't an inch of untouched skin.

She barely feels Jane's hand on her shoulder – because he was tortured, and this is her fault, and right now her mind is blank of anything that isn't guilt and grief.

 _Oh, Ray._

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Need**_


	15. Need

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** I'm getting a bit cross-eyed tonight because of last night's lack of sleep, so please forgive me if I don't answer your reviews from last chapter until tomorrow morning, I really need to get some rest. I do read you, and you all make me so very happy. Thank you. Have another long chapter.

 ** _PS - To the anon who couldn't see chapter 13, I think you may be having cache problems? Everything seems alright on my end._**

 **Warning:** Some profanity, a huge fight and little bits of fluff. You should be fine.

* * *

 **Chapter 15 - Need**

It takes her less than two minutes to start moving again.

In any other circumstances that reaction time would get her killed, she notes distractedly. But in the light of finding a frie – _an acquaintance_ of hers gruesomely tortured and murdered where she expected to find his killer instead, she considers it pretty good.

As long as she keeps herself removed from the situation.

As long as she doesn't let herself think of Ray as the clever, charming, witty guy she used to know.

As long as she stops thinking about her own guilty part in his death.

"Find me a handkerchief," she says.

"What?" says Jane, obviously confused.

"A _handkerchief_ ," she repeats. "Or any other fabric – and for God's sake, _don't touch anything_. Not even the walls."

She walks as close to R – _the body_ as she can, making sure not to step in blood, and starts examining the wounds.

"At least some of the cuts are Red John," she notes dispassionately. "The torture job though... That's not his usual M.O.

\- I've got your handkerchief," says Jane from somewhere behind her shoulder.

"Wipe your prints on the doorknob, make sure to be thorough," she says, still looking over the wounds. "Some of those slashes definitely aren't Red John, so – yes. I'm pretty sure he had help."

There's some faint pain in her jaw. Where does it come from?

 _Oh. The teeth clenching. Right._

"We need to leave, Lisbon.

\- Yes, just a minute, I want to check... something..."

She crouches down beside the chair, checking _the body's_ hands. Isn't there something...?

"We need to leave right now," says Jane, growing increasingly agitated.

"Yes, just – wait a minute. Will you give me a pen? I need to –

\- _Lisbon!_ " he growls – and suddenly he's pulling her by the arm out of the room. "We are leaving. _Now_."

They are so quickly back in the car, she barely has time to blink.

"Why would you that?!"

He glances at her, mouth in a line.

" _Don't you get it?_ We are not law enforcement right now. We are _wanted_ and _on the run_. That was not a crime scene back there, that – that was a _death trap!_ You _have_ to turn off your cop reflexes, Lisbon!

\- That was a _Red John crime scene_ , Jane! I work the Red John case! You cannot expect me to just _walk away!_

\- Yes, I can! I do!" he yells – and she starts, because in all the years they've worked together she never, _ever_ saw him yell at someone, let alone her. "You're not working the Red John case right now, _your team_ is! So call them. Pass the information over, call off an anonymous tip, anything else if you really can't help yourself, I don't care! But don't stay there in the room like – like – like a sitting duck!"

She doesn't answer him, instead angrily fishes for her phone in her pocket.

"Hey Cho," she says, trying very hard to keep her voice neutral – pretty sure she's failing. "Yes, everything is fine."

He scoffs. She glares.

"Red John killed Ray – Ray Haffner, yes. We just found him at Cordero's shack. No, there wasn't anyone else around. Will you go there with the team? Please check out his left hand carefully, I think there was something written in ink on the palm. No, I didn't have time to check it out – wait a minute. Jane? Did you wipe your prints on the front doorknob?"

He shrugs – an angry gesture. She grits her teeth.

"You may have to do something about that, sorry Cho. Please give the team my – _our_ best. Call me when you have news."

She hangs up – then stares ahead. The silence is heavy between them, brewing dark and violent like a thunderstorm. And it stays that way for a while – up until she realises they aren't driving mindlessly to escape metaphorical lightning.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer, keeps staring ahead.

"Jane. _Where_ are we _going?_ " she repeats pointedly – tone conveying she won't take silence as an answer.

"Malibu," he answers shortly, in a clipped voice.

 _What?_

"Have you gone _completely mad?_ You just _chewed my head off_ because I stayed too long for your taste around a Red John crime scene, and now you're _driving us back_ to what the whole of California's law enforcement dubbed _our own crime scene?_

\- I have to go back," he says between clenched teeth. "There's something there I need.

\- This is ridiculous! Jane, pull the car over."

He doesn't – keeps driving, and suddenly she has _enough_.

" _Pull_ the _fucking_ car over _now_."

She never swears – except when she does, and it's Jane's turn to be startled into compliance. When he stops on the side of the road, she gets out and, keeping one hand on the hood, goes around it from the front. She's pretty sure he wouldn't leave her stranded now, but he's always been unpredictable and she won't take any chance.

When she gets to his side, she pulls the door open and reaches for his arm.

"Come on. Out!"

The look he gives her is guarded, with an undercurrent of hopelessness, as if he's cracking at the seams and barely keeping himself together – but at this point? _She doesn't care_. She's so angry she could burst, and while deep down she knows just a small part of that anger is really directed at him, and just a small part of that turmoil is actually anger, his attitude is making her boil with the need to lash out.

"I don't know what's the problem with you, but _this?_ This stops _now!_ You've been off your game for at least two days now, and I could deal with that because I haven't been at my best either – but not if you won't talk to me! And _certainly not_ if you prevent me from taking action – action for which I've been _trained_ and you've _not_ – in some sort of misguided attempt to _protect me_."

She takes a deep breath – and he's still silent, still watching her, and that makes her want to squeeze his neck with her bare hands.

"Don't think I didn't see what you were doing there in that shack, Jane! This is the couch argument we had yesterday all over again. I need you to _have my back_ , but I _don't need you_ to protect me against _everything life throws at us_ – especially not when the only way you do it is to _use yourself as a meat shield!_ And now, _Malibu?_

\- You don't understand," he says painfully.

"You're damn right I don't understand! What was the plan, huh? Have us arrested just to avoid stray bullets? Were you even going to tell me before we got there? Or were you, I don't know, planning to go back to old patterns and leave me somewhere on the side of a road to _ride off in the sunset?_

\- I _lost_ it, Lisbon!" he yells back. "That's why I need to go back to my house!"

And suddenly his hands are cradling her head, gripping her hair painfully, and her back hits the car and his forehead presses against hers.

"I lost my focus," he says, voice quieter, breath coming in harsh pants. "And I can't find it back because everything in my mind is so filled with _you_."

He clenches his eyes tight, mouth half-open, keeping his forehead against hers and his hands deeply buried in her hair – and he looks so wrecked and raw and undone and this is _so not what she was expecting._

"This morning I kept hoping we wouldn't find Red John," he whispers, swallowing convulsively. "Because that way he wouldn't have a chance to hurt you. And that – that goes against _everything_ I've been after for _ten years_. Everything I still stand for. And it's like forgetting my wife, forgetting my daughter – killing them all over again, this time _all on my own_. But I can't help it, Teresa."

His grip loosens on her hair, and he hides his face in the crook of her neck – inhaling sharply when she raises a tentative hand to the back of his neck.

"I care for you," he says, voice coming out muffled and hoarse on her skin. "And if something were to happen to you... I don't know how I'd react."

They stay there for a while – his hands loosely around her waist, her own slowly stroking his back, both of their breathing erratic. Emotionally spent. And she finds herself without any footing to stand on, because if he only had told her yesterday, or even this morning, she would have known what to do with such a confession. She would have known how to keep him from seeking revenge ever again.

But then Red John tortured and killed Ray, sweet funny Ray who only ever tried to help her.

And that changes everything. That makes it personal, and makes her realise Jane was right – has always been right. There can only ever be one ending to this story, because if they don't fight back, he'll never stop hounding them. He'll never stop killing. And the law in which she so wanted to believe, that law itself isn't enough to stop him if they don't take matters in their own hands.

"How can I help?" she finally asks, quietly, to his ear.

He shakes his head minutely – _no idea_ , in Jane-speak.

"We _could_ go to Malibu," she says, even as her voice says _I very much don't want to_. "But, Jane, you must realise if seeing that bloody smile over – _the body_ earlier wasn't enough to have you focus on revenge again, chances are a faded one on your walls won't do the trick either. I know how your mind works – you don't need props to use your memories efficiently. So... so do you need to – "

And she'll blind her heart in iron if she has to, because this is larger than themselves.

"Do you need to – get me out of your system?

\- There's no getting you out of my system, Lisbon," he chuckles – making her sigh in relief, which in turn makes him chuckle some more.

"Let me anchor you then."

He kisses lightly the side of her neck, and kisses her forehead as she quivers still from the first one – takes a step back and smiles his sunny smile.

A somewhat cloudy version of it anyway.

"Don't you do that already?

\- Not if you don't trust me enough to _talk to me_ ," she says pointedly, and he has the grace to look a little ashamed.

Just a little – he's still Jane. And that thought makes her smirk.

"Alright," she says. "We still need a place to sleep tonight, so – better get going. But this conversation isn't over.

\- Of course not," he smiles unabashedly. "Where are we going then, if not to Malibu?"

Hands crossed on her chest, still half-leaning on the car, she thinks their options over while he contents himself with lightly rolling on the balls of his feet, watching her.

"I – may have an idea," she finally says, hesitating. "But I don't know what you'll think of it.

\- Go on.

\- I was thinking... Carson Springs. Your friends, the Barsocky. Just for a night."

He pauses, indecisiveness written all over his face.

"We would be taking a chance," he says. "I wouldn't be surprised if Red John has eyes on them.

\- Red John or the people trying to kill us. Do you think there's a chance they'd go after them?

\- Hmm. No. Red John wouldn't have any reason to, not like Haffner, they don't know anything – and the carny community is very tightly knit. I'm pretty sure that other one isn't as clever or cautious as Red John – but they must know attacking one carny means getting the whole community hot on their wheels. Even law enforcement knows that."

She nods.

"Maybe it's time we take a chance then," she says softly. "Stop running, wait for them to come to us. We need to finish this, Jane."

She can see lingering traces of fear on his darkened features, but then he nods.

"Promise me something," he says, an intense look in his eyes. "Promise me you won't take unnecessary risks.

\- I promise," she says. "But we'll have to talk about what is an _acceptable_ risk. Soon.

\- Agreed."

The hour drive to Carson Springs is quick – especially when they compare it to all that travel they did around California these last days. And when they get through the gates to the trailer park, she finds herself surprised at how happy she is to see Daisy the elephant in the distance.

"Patrick!" says Sam with a huge grin when she sees him coming – a grin that drops as quickly as it appears when he gets within slapping distance. " _What the eff have you done to your hair you little scamp?!_ "

And that comment is so _normal_ – so very much a mother's reaction, even as she knows Samantha Barsocky isn't related to Jane at all – that the low chuckle it triggers in both of them soon enough blooms over to full-belly, tears-jerking laugh. They have trouble keeping on their feet, each leaning on the other for support as they try to keep the hilarity in check – and fail, over and over again. Bewildered at first, Pete and his lovely wife quickly usher them to their trailer and sit them at the table, where laughter finally abates and gets replaced by serious discussion, a simple, hot and filling meal, and for the first time in what seems like months – _security_.

Temporary perhaps – but the warm welcome of Patrick's friends and the way they close ranks around them nearly bring tears to her eyes.

"Take Roddy's place for tonight," says Pete. "He's in the old country with the baby, visiting his folks – won't be back for a while, what with Eileen's death.

\- Thank you, Mister Barsocky," she says, trying to suppress a yawn.

"Oh _please_ , none of that, Pepper. Just Pete'll do," he chuckles. "Here Patrick, take those keys. Still eating eggs in the morning, yes?"

Overtired, they trudge together to the trailer they were assigned after saying their goodnight. He helps her climb in and, as soon as they put on their sleepwear and pull out the bed, she lets herself fall on it.

When he fails to appear beside her, she raises her head and leans on her elbow.

"What are you doing?" she asks, watching him trying to get comfortable on the very small sofa at the other end of the room. "Come back here."

He does – still hesitant when he sits near her.

"You sure?" he asks, voice low and edgy.

"As long as you promise not to wake me up with screams," she teases.

"As long as you promise not to die in your sleep," he quips back, grinning as he slips under the blankets and curls around her.

And – good.

If they can joke about this.

They'll survive.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Relief**_


	16. Relief

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** I... don't really like this chapter. High on drama, low on action, characters don't feel quite right and I couldn't fit in everything I wanted because I had a busy day with not enough writing time. Plus, tiredness is plaguing me because I keep finishing too late. So bleh. I'm sorry, I'll try to make the next one better. Hope you have at least a little enjoyment out of it anyway!

* * *

 **Chapter 16 - Relief**

He wakes up with back pains, cold feet pressed on his leg, and after a while realises he's trying to breathe through a mouthful of hair.

And it's blissful.

She latched on his arm in her sleep. Head nestled against his shoulder, soft breaths tickling his skin, and the heat of her body pressed against his hand – it's so easy to let himself forget why this situation is even possible. So easy to let himself rest in mental limbo, concentrate on what is right before him instead of what was, what could have been, what will be.

He's been tired of the chase for such a long time now.

Turning a bit on himself, he spends a moment just watching her relaxed features, the trail of freckles on her nose and shoulders, the way her hair is fanned on the bed. Even the unfamiliar reddish colour doesn't throw him off as bad as he thought. And her scent, as usual, is lovely.

He wonders if she tastes the same.

Then she stirs a bit, and opens bleary eyes, and scrunches her nose, and he smiles.

"Good morning!" he says, not quite chipper but getting there.

She closes her eyes again and, frowning, lets out a small throaty groan that wrecks havoc on his self-control.

"Were you watching me sleep?" she grunts, burying her face in his armpit, and he has an inkling she has no idea what she's doing – to him, or at all.

"Yes I was," he grins, amused.

"That's creepy," she mumbles, making him chuckle. "You need a shower," she adds, frowning, and this time he laughs out loud.

"I do," he agrees. "And I would, but someone has taken illegal possession of my arm.

\- I'll arrest them for you," she yawns – and, with a content expression, tightens her arms around his, unmoving.

He laughs as if it was punched out of him. He already knew she wasn't a morning person, but this – this is different, seeing it first hand. This is adorable, and he finds himself torn between letting her doze on his arm, or grabbing her into a hug, or waking her up properly with tickles and a kiss between her eyebrows, or maybe even –

And a bubble of guilt bursts heavily in his mind before he can let the fantasy go further. His breath hitches, both from the reminder of his Annie's sweet sleepy smile and the heat of Teresa's belly pressed against the back of his hand. Falling on his back against the bed, he scrunches his eyes hard. Trying to control his breathing, control his mind, only succeeds in making him more aware of he warm leg she has thrown over his thigh, of the soft swell of her breasts pushing against his arm, of the curl of her lips he desperately wants to taste.

He needs to get out of here before he yield in to temptation, to the powerful urge to throw away everything he is and seek oblivion in her.

Especially as a nasty little voice in his mind keeps asking him, in his daughter's voice, _why aren't you already?_

"Hey," she says, and he jumps – didn't realise she was awake and watching him. "Are you alright?

\- No," he whispers faintly.

She pauses, obviously waiting for an explanation. When none is forthcoming, she sighs and props herself on her elbow, still close but not touching him anymore – and if a large part of him feels relief, another mourns the loss of contact.

"What's wrong, Patrick?

\- I'm pretty sure you don't want to know," he says with a fake smile, trying for levity. "And I'll be fine – just give me a moment. I'll be right as rain in not time."

She doesn't buy it – and when did she become so perceptive again?

"Didn't we establish yesterday that I want you to talk to me?" she asks, tone neutral.

And he could lie, it would be _so easy_ – he's just not sure if she won't see right through him. He isn't sure of anything anymore. But if she wants honesty...

"We did, but we've also firmly established in the last ten years that this – this _thing_ between us, whatever it is – doesn't exist."

Then he rubs his hand on his face, sighing heavily before getting up.

"I'm sorry Lisbon. There was no reason to take it out on you. I need a shower, be right back."

 _Deflection isn't a lie_ , he reminds himself, as he disappears in the small bathroom, carefully avoiding any glance in her direction.

 _Running away isn't a deflection, either_ , says his teenage daughter's voice in his head. _It's just cowardly._

"Shut up," he groans softly to his brain, letting his forehead hit the glass panel as warm water falls over his back.

When he gets out, she isn't in the trailer anymore. The bed is made, their bag isn't anywhere around and for a moment, he gets the strange and intense impression that she decided to leave him behind. He blinks, then frowns – that's a pretty stupid thought. Lisbon would never do that.

 _So where is she?_

Then he glimpses a familiar form with unfamiliar auburn hair outside, and he's filled with relief – and only then does he see their bag on the ground beside the door.

 _That's what you get from being stupid about this_ , says his daughter, making him punch the top of the couch.

"I said _shut it_ ," he says – and shuts up himself, because he has no reason to have a conversation _with his brain_ about an issue he doesn't even want to talk about with Lisbon.

When he gets out of the trailer, Pete waves enthusiastically and beckons him toward them.

"So, Patrick, how's it to come back home? Pepper here was just telling us how comfortable the bed was, but I'm pretty sure she's lying! Never heard of a townie spend a good night sleep first time in a trailer," he teases, smiling to Lisbon who looks faintly put-out.

"Meh, she had a good pillow," he grins – and ducks the paper towel ball she throws at him.

"You smell ripe," says Sam behind him.

"I just took a shower!" he protests – and this time it's Lisbon's turn to grin at him.

"How much time since your last laundry?

\- Uhm... four, no – _five_..."

She raises a hand, effectively silencing him.

"That's what I thought. Pete, get those two some fresh garb before breakfast, I won't be put off my appetite with the stink of unwashed Jane.

\- We're on the run," he grumbles. "We have other things to worry about."

But the glare she sends his way is just enough to make him feel like the little boy he was the first time he met her, and it's like he never left. So he laughs self-deprecatingly and puts on Pete's too tall, too large clothes when he gives them to him, and doesn't complain even as he needs a very tight belt so the trousers won't fall over his ankles as soon as he stands up.

"You look ridiculous," says Lisbon when she comes back from taking her own shower.

"Thank you," he grins.

And she, of course, looks stunning in Sam's flowery dress.

Which is terribly unfair.

Really.

"Stop moping," says Sam with a small knowing smile. "You'll get back your things as soon as I'm done with. Then you can impress the lady some more."

He knows better than to give an answer to _that_ , but Lisbon's blush is a treat he never gets enough of. Then Pete comes back with plates of eggs and ham for everyone, and the bickering becomes food-related. Soon enough they talk of everything and anything with ease, and once again he forgets the outside world – up until Lisbon's phone rings, and she excuses herself from the table to answer.

"She's a nice little one," says Pete offhandedly.

"She must be, to deal with your particular brand of nonsense," adds Sam. "When are you two getting together?

\- They aren't already?!

\- Of course not. He still has his head _way_ up his ass.

\- _Okay_ , enough with the double act," he grumbles. "You sound like – "

And he stops himself from saying his daughter's name, because this is crazy and they wouldn't understand – he doesn't even fully understand himself, and really has no desire to. But Sam's perceptive eyes are scrutinising him from head to toes, and he gets the feeling she knows everything there is to know.

And understands it, too. Better than him, that's for sure.

"You're conflicted," she says after a while.

"It's – yes. It's a distraction I can't afford.

\- Seems to me you're already distracted," says Pete.

"I've been planning to kill Red John for years," he admits – and isn't surprised at all when they show no sign of consternation.

This is the carny way – mess with one, buy yourself a life insurance.

"Afraid she'll stop you?" asks Pete again.

"No – not really," he says, rubbing his forehead.

"Good, 'cause she won't," says Sam, frowning. "She's been following you like a lost puppy, waiting for your lead. Or maybe you're the puppy yanking on her leash – I'm not sure which is which."

He chuckles. The second one is actually pretty accurate, most of the time.

"Point is, you're obviously devoted to each other. And you ain't an idiot, Patrick, you don't need me to tell you that Angela wouldn't want this kind of life for you. So what's the problem?

\- It's – Red John. I lose my focus when she's around. It's dangerous.

\- She could help you find it back," grins Pete. "Scratch the itch."

He sends a warning glare, and the older man raises his hands in mock defence.

"Ah," says Sam, smiling. "You're in love.

\- _I'm not_ ," he says, voice suddenly harsh and low.

"Yes you are," she retorts. "That's why you really keep her at arms length. I've known you as a boy, _Paddy_ , I know how you are with the girls you like. Watching them adoringly from afar, yanking their pigtails when they get too close. You charm and flirt everything that moves, except when it comes to those you fall for – then you get all antsy, because it isn't a game anymore and you could get hurt, so you find yourself a whole heap of excuses and latch on it like a barnacle on a rock.

\- I'm not," he repeats, and swallows. "And I'm not that boy anymore.

\- Aren't you?

\- _Jane!_ "

He turns to Lisbon, happy for the distraction. She's waving at him.

"Please excuse me," he says somewhat coldly before leaving the table and walking to her.

"That was Cho," she says once he gets near enough. "Is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard?

\- The trailer," he says.

As soon as they close the door behind them, she turns to him.

"We've got a lead," she says. "Actually we've got several. But Cho has a problem. There was something written in ink on R – on _the victim's_ hand, but the CBI prints team had a mole who tried to wipe it and got caught. They made a deal with the DA in exchange for immunity and started talking about a cop club – and it's exactly what we've figured, Jane, it's a secret society of dirty cops within law enforcement. They call themselves the Blake Association.

\- _Tyger Tyger_ ," he says, and she nods. "Does Cho knows what was written on Haffner's hand or were they too late?

\- A part of it was wiped out," she says. "He managed to get numbers – 237 and 23, but anything else was gone by the time they caught the guy.

\- 237 and 23," he repeats, rubbing his chin. "That could be anything. Parts of a phone number, parts of a street address... parts of a code...

\- But that's not the worst of it," she interrupts, and suddenly he realises she's looking abnormally scared. "Bertram is still missing, and it's been five days now. Between that and the discovery of the Association, the FBI sent over a team from Texas to do some clean up – and that guy, Abbott, he gave orders to search for us nation-wide, and he _closed the CBI_."

For a moment he doesn't react, trying to understand all the ramifications of those news.

"Did Van Pelt get Bertram's burner phone back?" he asks, still staring ahead, brain still trying to be faster than lightning.

"I don't know, you'll have to ask her," she answers, and a vulnerable crack in her voice makes him look sharply at her.

And she's a mess.

"Hey," he says, lightly touching her arm. "It's going to be alright.

\- We're out of a job, Jane," she says, trying to contain tears. " _I'm_ out of a job. I haven't been out of a job since I was _seventeen_."

She sniffles sharply.

"But what's worse is _my team_ is out of a job," she continues. "Cho's mother is in the hospital, and Rigsby has a kid, and – and him and Van Pelt just got married. What are they going to do? And we – we can't count on them anymore. Not for information, not for anything. We're like – like _poison_ , and nobody's ever going to believe we were framed now! What are _we_ going to do?"

And he realises at that moment she never thought through her decision to follow him on this path – she just did, out of loyalty to him. She always thought he'd find a solution, that they'd smooth things over just like they always did, because she was used to that pattern with him. She didn't realise she was out of a job the moment Cho left them at his house, five days ago – and now reality is hitting hard.

Without a word, he opens his arms to her – and she takes him up on his offer, nestles her face near his collarbone and clamps her arms around his waist.

Maybe she'll decide to leave now. Pick up the pieces of her life and try her luck elsewhere. Go back to Sacramento and make a deal with that Abbott guy and the DA. She could. She's always been a good cop.

She _should_.

And even as he tries to be unselfish about it, the mere thought of her leaving him behind fills him with terror. So instead of talking to her, convince her to leave, he just tightens his arms around her shoulders and hides his face in her hair.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Wild Card**_


	17. Wild Card

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Holy sheep people, the length of these chapters are getting out of hand! This challenge was supposed to be 500 words per chapter, not over 3700! I'm frankly surprised I haven't fallen sick yet, because this? This is the amount I write in November - except the result usually is crappity-crap NaNoWriMo mode writing, full of typos and no editing at the end, not – _this_. I'm actually a little bit impressed with myself there. xD  
On another note, I'm glad to say I'm pretty satisfied with this chapter, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Aaaand we are officially trudging deep into UST territory. Please don't kill me (or Pete). x)

* * *

 **Chapter 17 - Wild Card**

She's looking out the window listlessly, temple against the glass and fist under her chin.

She hasn't moved in the last hour, hasn't said a word since she untangled herself from him, and that worries him – probably more than it should. When he tried to distract her earlier, engage her in meaningless banter, the look she sent his way was _blank_ – and that startled him enough to keep him from trying again.

So he stays there, sitting by her side in silence, all of his considerable attention focused on her – and she's staring ahead like nothing else exists in the world but that point far-away where her mind seems to have crawled.

He feels powerless.

It's slowly driving him crazy – he hasn't felt so out of control since his father had a hand in his life. Even his time in the hospital wasn't so bad – while his self was in tatters and his grief and guilt overpowering, he was mainly pitting his own mind, his own lack of desire to live against itself. His powerlessness at that time was of his own volition – and as soon as he got that in check, he emerged with renewed purpose.

This time it's not so simple. This time he's waiting for a sign – waiting to know what can he do, how can he help. _If_ he can help.

He's never been good with waiting games.

And then she moves – turns her head to him, and seems startled to see him.

"You're still here?" she says – as if he could leave her to brood alone.

"Where else would I be?" he asks awkwardly.

"I'm fine, Jane," she sighs. "I'm trying to think of what to do next.

\- You could use me as a sounding board," he frowns – a little hurt.

Wasn't she the one who insisted they speak openly to each other? But then of course she sends a side glance his way, and his daughter's mocking laughter echoes in his head, and he's reminded of his own deflection –

 _Running away!_

– of a few hours ago.

"I'm sorry," he says with a wince – he's been apologising a lot more than usual, too.

"What for?" she asks neutrally.

 _Oh, Lisbon_ – now he wants to laugh, because of course she'll make him work for this. Her attempts at manipulation, while transparent, are always very entertaining. He just needs to read her – which isn't always easy, as per the many layers of Lisbon's moods, but usually feasible – to understand exactly what she's trying to achieve. And this time –

This time, he comes up with nothing.

She doesn't seem to be waiting for an elaborate apology – she doesn't even seem to understand why he's sorry. There's exhaustion and sadness in her features, and her shoulders are hunched a bit – no playfulness at all.

This isn't a game – and he finds himself a bit lost.

"I'm the one who should be apologising," she says – always in that neutral tone. "I've been pushing you non-stop since yesterday, and I've been horrible to you while you've remained a gentleman.

\- I've been unfair to you this morning," he points out.

"Because I pushed you too far – that's my point. You have a right to keep things to yourself!

\- But you told me you wanted trust and honesty," he says, confused.

She stares at him, a mix of disbelief and worry playing on her face.

"And I thought _I_ had trust issues," she says after a while. "Really, Patrick, don't you know how this works?"

The question throws him in a loop.

"Trust doesn't mean you have to tell me _everything_ ," she adds, watching him carefully. "Trust means you know I'll listen to you if you need it. It means you'll come talk to me if you're struggling, if you have trouble working something out, and you'll believe I can have your back because we're on equal footing. It means you won't keep things from me when I need or deserve to know. But it doesn't mean I'm entitled to your every thoughts!"

He blinks, then chuckles. This is a first. Nobody ever implied he was over thinking things before.

"So... you're not angry that I snapped at you this morning?" he checks.

"No. I'm not angry. Even if I'd rather you tell me you don't want to talk about it instead of snapping," she quips, smirking.

\- But I do," he interrupts, and starts – where is this coming from?

But then he realises – he really does. And they have some overdue conversation topics anyway. So he bites the inside of his cheek and prepares himself for painful honesty.

"I do," he repeats. "I'm just – afraid. And I don't want to hurt you, but – but I don't know how to work this out alone. And it concerns you, so it gets a little awkward too.

\- Because you're attracted to me," she says – and he's shocked by the way the sentence falls so naturally from her lips, as if it doesn't affect her at all.

When he doesn't answer, too busy trying to find hints of something – _anything_ – in her body language, she raises an eyebrow.

"I'm not stupid, Jane. I don't have your skills of observation and deduction, but I'm a cop. It's my job to notice things, and – and attraction is a pretty obvious thing to pick up. _Isn't it?_ "

She's blushing now, because of the implied admission hidden in her words, but still confronting him head on – and his already sizable respect for her increases tenfold.

"And even if I didn't already figure it out _before_ – you were pretty obvious this morning. In both words and acts."

He flinches. She still doesn't look away.

"I asked you yesterday already, but I'm going to ask again. Do you need to get me out of your system? Do you need us to – to sleep together or something, so it'll be done and gone and you can be yourself again?"

He opens his mouth to deny it, but before he has time to say anything, three fingers are on his lips – shutting him up.

"Think carefully about your answer, Patrick, because if you say no I won't ask you a third time," she says, and for the first time since they started talking about this, he can see how much this hurts her, how much she soldiers on just to bring up this topic between them again.

Closing his eyes, he raises his own hand and, cupping up hers, kisses her palm. Her fingers are playing with the unshaven scruff on his cheek, lightly caressing, lightly trembling against him.

"You would sacrifice yourself for my sake? You don't want to do this, Teresa, why are you doing this?" he whispers, keeping his eyes closed, focused on that tingling, pleasurable sensation.

"Because I can't do this alone," she answers quietly. "Because Red John will never stop killing if we don't stop him, and I'm sick of him hounding us, murdering – _people we know_."

Her breath hitches, and he looks at her. She's staring at him very intently – with darkened eyes and slightly parted lips and pink heat on her cheekbones, and he finds himself gulping with an audible click.

"You and I, we're a team. _Partners_. And if you – if _by miracle_ you realise you're unable to find the will to kill him – which by the way I don't believe could happen, but who knows, maybe next year we'll learn Santa _really exists_ – "

She's babbling now. He grins – melts a little inside, even if the subject of her rambling is gruesome.

"My point is – if you can't kill him, _I will_. But I need you by my side. I need you at my back, and I need to be at yours. And if this is what _you_ need to make that happen, then – "

 _She's doing exactly what he did to meet with Red John a year ago._

And for the first time, he admits to himself there might be something to what Sam was saying earlier, because the thought of making – _having sex_ with Lisbon with her closing off her emotions and sending her mind elsewhere, just like he did with Lorelei, fills him with so much pain he could howl in agony.

Instead he kisses her palm again – forcefully, open mouthed, and when he hears her sharp intake of breath, he repeats it with the inside of her wrist.

" _No_. I don't want you _out of my system_ , Lisbon – _Teresa_ , don't you understand? _I want you in!_ "

He kisses the crook of her elbow, and her fingers are pulling on his hair, hanging on for dear life.

"And it scares me – you have no idea _how much_ it scares me," he whispers harshly. "But it's the truth. I don't just want _you_. I want it _all_.

\- So," she asks coarsely. " _What is stopping you?_ "

She's pulling him to her, and his hand comes up to smooth away hair on her temple, so _soft_ , then cups her cheek, just the right size to fit in his palm, and her erratic breath puffing on his lips sends shivers up and down his spine, so he closes his eyes, tilts his head slightly to the side, and –

"I have your clothes, kids!" bellows Pete from outside, rattling on the trailer's door before barging in.

They must be quite a sight – stricken faces with darkened eyes, breathing fast and hard as if they just ran for their lives, she leaning against the window with a hand clutching her heart, he on the edge of the seat, about to fall over, at least three feet between them and staring at each other with enough high-tension to jump-start a couple of car batteries.

"Oh, sorry," grins the man. "Did I interrupt something?

\- No!" squeaks Lisbon automatically.

" _Yes!_ " he groans at the same time, then rubs a hand on his face. "No. _Maybe_. What do you want, Pete?

\- Touchy, touchy... Anyway! Sam washed your clothes, and we'd like a lil' bit of help for lunch. Think you can cook something while me and the missus here take care of Daisy?"

He rubs his face once again.

"Yeah, sure. We'll join you in a minute.

\- Great! Sam'll be _overjoyed_ ," says Pete, leaving with a knowing grin – and that emphasis just confirms the fact his wife will be hearing all about _this_ in less than a minute.

He sighs – turns back to Teresa, who's looking at him with a guarded expression now.

"So," she says.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Sorry about that. I'm – feeling a little bit like a teenager just now."

She laughs, still a bit breathless.

"Tell me about it. I'll have to ask Pete stories about you," she says, grinning.

"You heard him... I bet he'll be _overjoyed_."

She gets up, skirts around him carefully without touching him – and he toys for a second with the idea of pulling her back to him, but she's already on the other side of the trailer by the time he decides to do it.

Obviously she has better dealing-with-awkward-interruptions skills, because she's already outside in her own clothes before he can even afford to move again. He feels more than a little dazed, and his heart hasn't quite gotten the hang of beating with a normal rhythm again. Thankfully the guilt-ridden parts of his brain haven't kicked back in yet – and his daughter's hallucination is quiet, too.

He'll enjoy the silence as long as it lasts.

Sam is uncharacteristically devoid of sarcasm and playfulness while he cooks – and he's grateful for that, too, because he doesn't think he'd deal well with teasing right now. But when she squeezes his biceps and smiles at him, he sighs and nods – both understanding the other without a word, just like when he was a kid escaping from his overbearing dad in her kitchen.

Lunch is a quiet affair. Both Teresa and him are still rattled by that moment between them, and his friends know him too well to butt in without caution when he's in that sort of mood. Soon he gets up, picks up the empty dishes and excuses himself, escaping to his friends' trailer for a bit of solitude.

"Your lady's waiting for you," says Pete, walking in as he dries the last plate. "She went back to Roddy's place.

\- Thanks," he says distractedly, putting a pile of clean forks back in the drawer.

"Go on," his friend urges him. "Don't make her wait longer."

He swallows, suddenly nervous, and nods.

"You have the right to be happy, you know," says Pete as he leaves.

He wishes he could believe that.

When he climbs back in Roddy's trailer, he isn't surprised to find Teresa back on the seat near the window, in the same exact position she was in before they started talking earlier. But this time she smiles at him when he sits beside her, and there's a glowing, happy quality to her whole body language that warm his heart.

"Hey," he says lightly, smiling back.

"Hi," she answers warmly, standing up. "Let's go back outside, it's a nice day. I saw a table under a tree earlier."

They walk together slowly, hand in hand, to a small grove where a pick-nick table sits under the shade of a large tree. They sit facing each other, and as soon as they are seated, he picks up her hands in his again. Her smile is a little shy, and her eyes don't quite meet his – and he grins when he sees her cheeks becoming red.

"So... Pete said you were waiting for me?

\- Yes," she says. "Earlier we – uhm, we got a little distracted..."

She grins, teasing, and he chuckles.

"You can call it that.

\- Yeah. But before we started talking about – well. I was actually about to ask you for a favour.

\- Oh?" he says, intrigued. "Do tell."

She fidgets very slightly, just enough to make him frown.

"I wanted to ask you if you could hypnotise me," she says, one hand climbing to her ear and rubbing the underside.

He blinks.

"Really? What for?

\- Well, I was thinking about those numbers Cho gave me, and – you know I saw briefly the – _his_ hand before we got out. So I was thinking, maybe I saw more than I remember.

\- I'm impressed," he says, and she rolls her eyes. "No, really! I didn't even think of that, and I'm the one familiar with hypnotism here.

\- You're just off your game," she grumbles.

"There is that," he admits, eliciting another eye roll from his partner.

"Well, it's my job as team leader – at least, it _was_... Anyway. You have a very specific skills set and I would be stupid not to make use of my very own wild card.

\- Card games metaphor, really?" he grins, and she swats his arm. "Still, it was very clever of you. Good thinking, Lisbon. How do you want to go about this?"

She shrugs.

"I don't know, just do it? I trust you."

He nods, feeling a little choked – nothing in her body language suggests she's holding back on him in any way. And as he talks in a soothing voice, eases her into a light trance, she lets herself relax so quickly he actually finds himself a bit shocked.

"I want you to go back to yesterday morning," he says, _sotto voce_. "Think about the hotel in Vegas. What do you see?

\- You," she says, eyes slightly glassy. "You're frowning, and I don't like that, so I'm trying to make you smile. We're holding hands near your new car. I don't like it, by the way.

\- My car?

\- Yes. It smells like cold cigarettes. It doesn't suit you at all.

\- You're very right," he grins. "Now think about the ride to Bakersfield. How is it going?

\- Four _hours_ ," she moans. "It's starting to get hot outside again, and I remember thinking I didn't want you to kill Red John. That was stupid of me. Is that _a deer_ on the side of the road?

\- Yes, I do believe it is. We're getting closer to Cordero's shack now. How are you feeling?

\- Anxious," she says, frowning. "And scared. If we find Red John, I'm afraid of what's going to happen to you. And if he's not there, well – the closer we get to Sacramento, the more dangerous it is to be recognised. I really don't want you to go to prison, or – or worse.

\- I'm not fond of the idea either," he whispers, then clears his throat. "Listen to me very carefully now, Teresa. We're getting near the shack, but I want you to close your eyes. You don't see anything as we walk to the door and go in. Follow my voice, alright?

\- Alright," she says sleepily. "Something smells bad, like – rotting meat, I think. It's disgusting.

\- It is," he agrees. "But it's going away now, and the air is fresh and clean again. I'm just beside you. You're safe. Now you're walking into the room – you still don't see anything. It's dark and you feel peaceful... so very peaceful."

She lets out a very small content sigh – one that echoes deeply inside him and nearly breaks his concentration. Gritting his teeth against the rising temptation to just whisk her away to a place where she'll feel safe enough to sigh like that every day, he continues to guide her mind back to the shack.

"You still don't see anything," he says. "Now you're crouching, and very soon you will open your eyes, but when you do you will only see a pair of hands. Do you hear me, Teresa? Only a pair of hands, with something written in ink in one of the palms. Do you understand?

\- Yes," she says slowly.

"Very good. Now open your eyes slowly – carefully. You only see hands, and something in ink in the palm. Do you see it?

\- I – I'm not sure," she says, scrunching her nose. "I see – something. Letters, but it's – "

She's starting to fidget, mind rebelling against the onflow of emotions linked to that moment, so he starts talking soothingly again and, while doing so, caresses her thumb with his.

"This is like a movie," he says. "You can stop it at any time... and rewind it... and put it on pause. It's just like a movie. You are not really in that room, and you are safe, nothing in there is really happening. Concentrate on the hands, Teresa.

\- There's... an S," she says slowly, squinting. "It's... San – Santa..."

Before she can say anything else, there's a discreet _tzing_ and the wood near their joined hands explodes in splinters, startling him badly. He jumps to his feet, looking around frantically.

There's a man coming toward them, less than twenty feet away – a man grinning madly, holding a gun in his hand.

Horrified, he taps her shoulder, waking her up – and jumps in front of her, trying to give her cover with his body. Alarmed and confused, she shakes her head, seemingly not yet understanding what's going on.

"Teresa, get up!" he yells. "Pick up your gun, now!"

Why, _oh why_ did he leave his in the trailer? He hears her fidgeting and swearing behind him, but doesn't look back – keeps his eyes on the man, on the gun he's slowly, so very slowly aiming on them again.

"You don't want to do that," he says – begs, really.

"Sorry dude," the man says, lips stretching into a violent smirk. "He said to tell you something before I kill you. I think it was... _Tyger, Tyger_."

And his weapon clicks, just as he hears Teresa's gun click behind him – _finally_ – and he cringes because everything seems to be too slow and maybe he'll get shot or worse _she'll_ get shot and –

And abruptly there's another quiet _tzing_ , and the man falls to his knees, then to the ground, a red flower blossoming on his temple.

" _What the hell?!_ " says Teresa behind him, and only then does he realise she didn't have time to fire her weapon.

He takes a sharp breath when his eyes fall on another man, standing near a car so very far away – a man with a cowboy hat and a faintly amused expression, who touches two fingers to his headpiece before jumping in the car and driving away. Teresa is already running after him, but he knows she won't get him.

He's already gone.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Red**_


	18. Red

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** This chapter was incredibly hard to write, for obvious reasons – which you'll understand once you read. I hope you won't be too upset, but in case you are, I'm very sorry.  
It's currently 3:30 am at my place, so I'm off to bed! I'll answer your reviews on the last chapter tomorrow in the morning.

 **Warning:** Canon character death, some gruesome acts and some Red John cruelty. If you find yourself triggered, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Chapter 18 - Red**

There's no time to lose now.

Still reeling inside from the attack, he picks up his phone and scrolls through his contacts until he find Grace's.

"Jane!," she says. "Did Lisbon tell you about the CBI?

\- Yes, she did," he answers shortly. "Look Grace, we're in a bit of a bind here. Did you get back Bertram's phone before the labs were closed?

\- Yes, I have it right here.

\- Good. Perfect. I will need you to bring it to me. Can you come and meet us in – "

For a second he's uncertain where to have her meet them – they cannot stay in Carson Springs any longer, not with a dead body so obviously shot to death. Then instincts take over, and he knows exactly where to go.

" – in Santa Monica?

\- I don't think so, Jane," says Grace with a fretful voice. "The FBI is watching us very closely – if we try to meet with you, we'll lead them right to you."

 _Is this an acceptable risk_? he wonders. Teresa would be very cross with him if she knew he was planning to put themselves _and_ their team in danger. On the other side... they've worked through worse. They really need all the information they can get their hands on. And she isn't there to stop him.

Though she's coming back quickly. Better end that phone call.

"I think we can take that risk," he says. "That is, if _you_ are willing to take it."

She scoffs, just like he knew she would.

"Of course I'm willing. You're both innocent – they'll realise _that_ soon enough! Santa Monica you say?

\- That's right, I'll text you the address.

\- Great! See you then."

 _Dear, dear Grace. Bless her gentle, brave, naive little heart._

"Was that McAllister in the car?!" Lisbon asks as soon as she's back to his side.

"Looks like it," he hums, turning his attention on the dead body on the ground.

"Don't touch it, Jane," she says distractedly – making him grin. "That makes no sense! Why would he save our life?"

"It makes perfect sense," he says, frowning, trying to pick up the gun with his sleeve.

Maybe if he – _ah_. Shirt sleeves are better to pick things up than jacket sleeves. Good to know.

" _How_ does it make perfect sense?" she ask, with a hint of annoyance in her voice

He raises his head toward her – she's looking at him intently, slightly frowning, the perfect picture of their crime scene normalcy. He's torn between both laugh and soft despair – while Lisbon's crime solving expertise is an excellent thing to have on his side, he suspects she forgot they weren't on the job again. She isn't even a little worried.

You really can't take the cop out of that girl.

"It's mind games, Lisbon," he says. "Just like that day in Napa, remember? When he saved my life on the roof of that church?

\- So... what, he just – happened to lurk around, _stalking us_ , and be there in time to stop a killer? _Then_ made sure we saw him before running away?!

\- Hmm... Pretty much, yes," he says, rubbing his chin. "At least that's what I think. Of course, it fits in my earlier theory that _he_ didn't send people after us, but that could be mind games too. He _could_ have been the one to send people over and stage the whole thing... hmmm... Nope, I'm staying on my first idea. But he might have known about the fact there was a killer in the first place. In fact, I'm pretty sure he _did_ , and he was lying low around here to stop him. Which could mean...

\- You're _really_ calm about this," she interrupts him. " _Why_ are you so calm about this? I'm used to you flipping over like a pancake whenever someone talks about Red John, now we come face to face with him _and he escapes_ , and you're cool as a cucumber?!"

He glances her way.

"I'm not calm _at all_ ," he says, unable to stop a steely note creeping in his voice. "But I need to keep my nerves about this. If I make one mistake now, everything is over. He could win. We could die. He could kill _you_. Trust me, nothing is making me _less_ calm than _that_."

And to his surprise, she _smiles_.

She played him!

 _The little minx._

"Good," she says. "I need you here. Now let's see that gun. Silencer?"

He gives her the weapon as well as a glare – which she answers by a quick grin before focusing back on their predicament. While she examines the firearm, he crouches down near the body and search its pockets carefully, looking for anything useful.

"No I.D," he says.

"That silencer is expensive though. Professional killer perhaps?

\- Hard to say," he frowns. "He didn't look like it, but I'll bet he was a hired gun. He wasn't part of the Association.

\- There's an easy way to check that," she notes – then chuckles at his squeamish expression. " _Fine_ , I'll do it."

She crouches down, puts the gun on the ground – then stops.

"Crap," she says. "No gloves. If I touch it, they'll find my fingerprints all over it."

He stays silent for a second, then clears his throat.

"Mine are all over it already. But actually, we, uhm – we better make this one disappear."

She glances up, looking at him as if he suddenly sprouted wings.

"Are you _mad?_ I'm not helping you get rid of a body we didn't even kill!

\- Does that mean you'd help me hide a body we _did_ kill?" he laughs.

She rolls her eyes, but the pink tinge on her cheeks gives her away – and his breath hitches. She would. _She really would_. He's not sure he knows how to feel about that.

"We can't keep it there," he says, trying to push down a pesky bubble of glee threatening to overflow. "We're wanted, Sam and Pete are known friends of mine, this was nearly done in their backyard... I'm pretty sure they'd take that as an opportunity to dig into their past, and I can't let that happen. Sam is – well. So... do what you have to do. Don't worry about prints. We'll – just take care of it later."

She averts her eyes, staring at the ground for a moment, nothing in her demeanour giving her away – and he's impressed that she mastered the "no-tell" tell in so little time – until her lips settle in a grim line and she turns the body over. In very little time, she unbuttoned the shirt and revealed the shoulder.

No dots.

"Hired gun then," she mutters, before getting back up.

She looks a little queasy.

"I'll, uh," he says, slightly wincing. "I'll get a blanket."

She nods, eyes set on the dead killer's face, but doesn't say a word. Still, as soon as he comes back, she helps him haul over the corpse on the fabric, roll it over and carry it to his car without complaint, where they drop it in the trunk, along with the gun.

"I'm sorry," he offers when they come back to the trailer park.

"Don't be," she says, shaking her head. "It's not your fault. I just – don't have the perfect set of morals for this.

\- I don't think a lot of people do," he says quietly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his side as they walk.

She leans her head against his shoulder for a moment.

"How do you figure you'll live with yourself once this is over?" she asks softly.

"I – I don't know," he answers. "I've never thought about it."

And this is probably not the right moment to tell her he never even thought he'd survive killing Red John. For so many years, this has been the end of the road for him – either the end of his life, by means of death row, or the end of his freedom. Only in recent years has he started wanting – more.

She's been throwing wrenches in his plans for longer than he thought.

"Ready to leave?" he asks, dropping a small kiss on her forehead.

"Yeah," she sighs, and untangles herself from his arms.

As they thank Sam and Pete for everything, he finds himself wondering if they'll ever come back here. If he'll ever see them again – banter with them like this, with Teresa by his side... perhaps even with a clean, clear future ahead of him. Ahead of _them_.

He's surprised by how much he wants that.

Maybe one day he'll invite her back to the fair in summer, when the show is flying high and marks – _people_ – run everywhere making themselves sick with candy and excitement, when the cacophony of sounds and lights and laughter is as its best. Maybe he'll make her laugh and win her a stuffed animal – or compete with her at the shooting stand. Maybe he'll let her in, in _him_ , in this highly colourful world he uses as his inner sanctum.

Maybe he'll offer her to take a ride on the carousel.

Maybe he'll even tell her what that means in carny culture.

He cringes.

... _before_ inviting her, of course. He wouldn't be so stupid as to trap her like that.

The daydream comes to a crash as soon as they get back to his car, with its pervasive smell of ashtray and its body in the trunk. Weariness on her features, Teresa doesn't even put a fight when he gets in the driver's seat – she just shrugs slightly and sits on the other side.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"Remember what we were doing just before we got involved in a shooting?" he says, trying to infuse some levity in his words.

"You were hypnotising me," she says.

"Yes. And you remembered something, isn't it?"

She frowns – then raises an eyebrow.

"Santa something?

\- _Voilà_. It could be a lot of things, but I'll be going out on a limb here and guess – _Santa Monica_ , which is pretty close from here and has a 23rd Street in a residential area.

\- So that's where we're going. To check out that address.

\- After a small stop in the desert. Yes.

\- Why?"

He bites his lip before answering.

"This is a wild guess, so don't take it as anything else than speculation...

\- I usually do," she smiles, teasing.

He shoots her a quick grin, but quickly becomes serious again.

"Red John intended us to find the message on Haffner's hand yesterday. He probably expected we'd go check it out as soon as we could. When we went to Carson Springs instead, it threw him off – so he had to come find us and veer us in the direction he wanted us to go.

\- So... this is a set-up," she says slowly.

"Pretty much.

\- If it's a set-up, then _why the hell are we going there?!_

\- Red John wants me to be there. It's important enough to him that he saved our life and let me see his face – and while he might have guessed I knew who he was, he had no way to be sure, and don't forget he's on the run too. Don't forget he's pretending to be dead. We – you, me, and the team – we're the only ones to know he's not.

\- Jane, he's a psychopath!" she says, exasperated. "He's a thrill-seeker – he felt safe enough to show his face to us because he knew we couldn't retaliate. It has nothing to do with the message in R – in _his_ hand. We don't even know who wrote it!

\- It wasn't _safe_ for him. You had your gun, you could have shot him," he says, with a pointed look. " _I_ would if I had mine.

\- He's done his research by now," she says, slightly grumpy. "He knew I wouldn't shoot. I'm good with a gun, but he was about two hundred feet away – those trailers around aren't equipped to stop a bullet if I miss. And you? Of course he knew you wouldn't have your gun. You hate firearms, and you felt safe here, you had no reason to keep it on you. Plus, you didn't have a silencer, he knew you wouldn't risk attracting attention to Sam and Pete."

He drives in silence for a moment, taking an exit he knows will lead us to the desert.

"You give him a lot of credit in the mind department," he says after a while.

"Of course I do," she gripes. "He's been out-foxing the police for – what, nearly twenty-five years now? And he's making _me_ run in circles since 2003.

\- _Us_ ," he corrects her softly. "Do you think he's cleverer than me?"

She stares.

"Are you fishing for compliments?

\- No," he says, a sliver of uncertainty in his voice.

She shakes her head, but doesn't answer.

They make a short stop at a gas station, where he buys two spare tanks of fuel after making sure the cashier doesn't recognise him, then drives half an hour deep into the desert. With a few deep breath to steel themselves, they pick up the body from the trunk, drop one whole tank on it and set it on fire.

Then they wait.

The smell is terrible – half charred flesh, half roasted pig, enough to make them sick one after the other. But it burns, and burns, and after a while he knows – nobody will be able to link the victim to them now, even if they find the body here in the desert. They can leave.

Teresa is listless as they drive away, tear tracks marring her cheeks, and for a moment he's tempted to – just stop. Give them a breather. Rent a room in a hotel, take long showers to scrub their skin and mind clean of the scent of death, get a good night of sleep. They could get to Santa Monica in the morning instead – and the urge gets so powerful he starts looking for sign posts on the side of the road.

Then his phone rings.

"Hey Jane," says Grace, and – oh, that's right, they have to meet soon.

 _Crap._

"Hey Grace, where are you?

\- On the road. I'll be there in two hours, I think. Uhm, is everything alright?"

He blinks.

"Yes, why are you asking?

\- You, uhm, didn't text me the address for the meet."

 _Oh._

"I forgot, I'm sorry. I'll do it right now.

\- ... you _forgot?!_

\- I'm human too, you know," he winces. "There's a lot going on right now.

\- Oh yes, of course, I'm sorry! I'll, uhm, hang up now. See you in two hours."

He hangs up, texts the address over, clenches his teeth. They won't get rest just yet.

"Was that Van Pelt?" Teresa asks in a dull voice.

"Yeah, it was.

\- What did she want?

\- The address in Santa Monica. I told her earlier to meet us there."

She rubs her eyes tiredly.

"You told her to meet us in Santa Monica," she repeats, a mere shadow of her usual annoyed tone.

"We really need to get back Bertram's phone," he says.

She sighs loudly but stops arguing – and isn't that a worrying sign.

"There's still an hour to go before we get there," he says. "You should sleep.

\- Yeah," she breathes, and closes her eyes.

She's fast asleep in minutes, and he makes sure to drive just a little slower than he usually does. But soon, way too soon, he engages his vehicle in a posh street with white brick houses and garden pools, and stops the car in front of what looks like a two-stories small replica of an European mansion. For a moment he flirts with the idea of staying in the car while waiting for Grace, let Teresa sleep just a bit longer – but he came here early to explore the house alone, or at least alone _with her_ , and he really needs to do that before his team-mate gets here.

Especially if, as he expects, she'll be followed by an army of FBI agents less than fifteen minutes later.

Because he didn't tell Teresa, but this is his plan – this is his safety net. If that house is a set-up, if Red John is trying to trap him there somehow, at least that way he'll have back-up. Unreliable back-up, but back-up still the same – he didn't forget how McAllister couldn't go through his whole routine the night he ambushed her in that abandoned house because she had the amazingly clever idea to call for help _before_ entering the building.

And pigeons – but he doesn't have one of those around.

Fifteen minutes should be enough for him to kill and be done with – and if it isn't, if Red John overpowers him somehow... Well, he fully expects the G-men to get there in time to save _her_.

"Hey," he says, hand smoothing hair over her ear. "Wake up."

She stirs, opens large, slightly foggy green eyes and quirks her lips when she sees him.

"Hi," she says, voice cracking high. "We're here already?

\- Yes. Did you want to stay in the car?

\- Of course not," she says before rubbing her eyes and shaking herself awake. "Alright, let's go."

They walk side by side, trying to affect a normal gait in case someone sees them – but it's the middle of the day, children are at school and their parents are working. There's nobody around to see anything.

When he reaches the door, he isn't surprised to find it unlocked.

"I really don't like this," she says, hand on her gun.

And he doesn't either – he's uncomfortably reminded of the day before, when they found Haffner's body in that empty shack. But they can't stop now.

Unlike the shack, there are signs someone lived in here recently. The air is cold, crisp and fresh, the household is well kept, there's no signs of struggle. All the doors are open – at least for what he can see from the hall.

Silently, they walk around the place, trying to find something – anything to explain why they were led in here. Soon their exploration of the first floor is over, and they start climbing the stairs, she in the lead, he at her back, both with guns drawn. The second floor seems empty too, however, and after a while they get back downstairs, both frowning in confusion.

"We missed something," she says. "What could it be?"

He doesn't answer, instead lets himself fall on a couch in the living room, piercing eyes mapping everything.

It takes a while, but then – there it is.

"The bookshelves," he says, getting up.

"The bookshelves?" she repeats, confused.

"Look at the way this place is done. That wall division is odd – we can't get on the other side of it, but it's large enough to be a room, don't you think? It's not the first time we see something like this either... rich people are remarkably paranoid.

\- So... you think there's a hidden room behind the bookshelves.

\- Yes," he says. "And I'll bet if we look around here..."

He lets his hand find the nooks and crannies in the dark wood shelves, pushing and pressing and pulling until he hears a click – and then a whole section of the bookshelf turns over.

Teresa gasps.

The room on the other side is a mess. Shredded paper everywhere, dark broken glass in every corner, some metal pieces coming off what looks like the remains of a computer – there's so many details for his eyes to dissect that he nearly misses the body sprawled on the ground, three gunshot wounds on his chest. But Teresa didn't, and she's already near it, checking for a pulse.

It seems they found Bertram.

"He's dead," she whispers.

"He's probably been dead for a while – it's so cold in here it wouldn't look like it at first sight, but my guess? He was dead before we found Haffner."

Her arms close around her chest.

"This is what he wanted us to see? I don't understand."

He doesn't understand either.

"What was he trying to shred?" she asks, picking up some long slices and trying to put them back together.

He's more interested in the lighter conspicuously left in the middle of a table out of the way, as if left there for him to find. _Most certainly_ left there for him to find, he corrects himself as he picks it up.

He flicks the wheel – but it rolls empty, as if the mechanism inside has been removed. He frowns, turns it over, taps it with his nail. Nothing.

"Hey, get a look at – " he says, turning to Teresa – and then stops in the middle of his sentence, because suddenly she has a stricken look on her face and something twists heavily in his stomach.

"Oh my God," she whispers, turning over and over a pile of small pieces of cardboard in her hands. "Oh – oh my _God_."

Slipping the lighter in his pocket, he walks to her, but she jumps to her feet, putting some distance between them. Startled by her reaction, he stops.

"Teresa?" he says, uncertain.

"He – he kept _trophies_ ," she says, and something clenches painfully in his chest.

"Show me.

\- Jane – _Patrick, no_. You don't want to see this. _Trust me_. You don't.

\- _Show me now_."

She still doesn't want to give him what she's holding in her hand, so he walks to her and grasps the pieces of cardboard so quickly she has no time to react. She clings to them, and in their struggle most of the pieces fall all over the ground.

And only then does he realise what they are fighting over.

"I'm so sorry," she says, crying. "Patrick, I'm _so, so sorry_."

Pictures.

Dozens of pictures.

Blood is pulsing heavily in his ears, and he feels his legs give up under him. With shaking hands, he picks up the nearest Polaroid square and stares, unmoving, unwilling to see but unable to look away.

Time makes no sense anymore.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

He should have listened to her.

And with utter certainty, he knows he'll never hear the nagging voice of his teenage daughter in his head again – for his daughter never reached her teens.

She never even reached eight.

Because one night, a terrible man broke into her room, and grabbed a knife, and _woke her up_ , and _took pictures of her terrified screams_ , and _killed her_ , and she was _so scared_.

 _So very scared_.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Adrenaline**_


	19. Adrenaline

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Small- _ish_ chapter today, but I hope you'll like it nonetheless! Consider the prompt less "adrenaline" and more "adrenaline crash", as they've been running on the stuff for a while now.

 **Warning:** Dissociation and (very) emotional characters. If this triggers you, please stay safe.

* * *

 **Chapter 19 - Adrenaline**

This is a nightmare.

It's too much. Never mind Red John, never mind the body disposal, the shootings coming one after the other, the running from the law or even the lack of every sanity tether – rest, security, stability. It's those emotional blows they get one after the other – _that_ is what's going to get them. What's going to end them.

End that may not be too far away, seeing how Patrick is imploding before her eyes.

He's clearly in shock – shaking all over, unable to stay on his own feet, his unfocused eyes staring ahead, far away. And when she gently removes the picture from his hands, he doesn't react at all. Quietly sobbing, she tries her best to help him get up, because they can't stay here, they have to get away. They have to leave before law enforcement comes after them again – and it will, of course it will, because she knows, she just knows for once she was right, and that knowledge doesn't bring her any pleasure at all.

This was a set-up.

A set-up to frame Bertram for being Red John, and Patrick for killing him.

And it's so clever, so terribly destructive there isn't anything else it could be. She didn't miss those three shots on Bertram's chest, so similar to those fired on Timothy Carter all those years ago – wouldn't be surprised to find the gun that fired them under all that shredded paper. Didn't miss how those pictures were placed so neatly in Bertram's hand either, how anyone finding the body – she and Patrick, or the FBI, or any law enforcement really, whomever found it first – wouldn't miss looking at them and immediately understand what they were. What they meant.

It's not the first time Red John played them like this. And she should have known. She should have remembered.

But she'll have time to think it through later. For now she must focus on getting them out of the house, back to the car, out of the city.

So she soldiers on, wipes her tears, tries to keep her breathing in check – picks up his arm, puts it over her shoulder.

"Come on," she says, desperate. "Please Patrick, _move_ , we need to go."

She nearly sobs again when she realises they really have nowhere to go.

His skin is clammy, his breathing shallow and irregular, but at least he's walking, at least she doesn't have to pick him up on her back to get him out of here. They just need to get to the door, one step at a time, steady but not too slow, and here they are, she'll turn the doorknob and then they'll get down the stairs, one step at a time, and –

There's three very familiar faces on the other side of the door.

"Oh my God, Boss!" says Grace, mouth slightly opened in shock. "What happened to you?!"

And Rigsby, dear old Rigsby is just quick enough to catch Jane as he's falling over because she has no strength anymore, and Cho, solid stable Kimball catches _her_ as she finally breaks down, ruining his suit with desperate, relieved tears she has absolutely no way to stop.

There's a reason she shouldn't do this, but on her life she cannot remember what it was.

"Alright," says Cho, taking over. "Van Pelt, give me Bertram's phone and address book. You and Rigsby need to go and run interferences so the FBI doesn't catch us here. Lisbon, where's your car?"

She takes a shuddering breath, reluctant to leave the secure nest of her colleague's arms, and points toward Jane's vehicle.

"Keys are in Patrick's jacket," she says faintly, still trying to get her tears in check.

At least now they're streaming down her cheeks silently.

"Rigsby, take his keys and put him on the back seat. Then leave with Van Pelt. Go to the beach or something, act like you're on vacations. I'll call you when we're out of town," says Cho. "Come on Lisbon, let's go."

She lets him guide her to the car, but as soon as she's seated she turns to the back to make sure Patrick is alright. He's laying on his side, knees against his chest, eyes closed and brows furrowed, one hand under his cheek in a childish pose that breaks her heart.

"He'll be fine," says Cho, now sitting in the driver's seat. "You should rest."

She turns to him, but he's already looking ahead to the road with his usual placid expression, and she finds it easier for now to lean against the window than ask questions.

Those can wait.

Sleep doesn't come to her, however. She finds herself staring at the sunset over the buildings and, when they get on the highway, over the sea and mountains further away. Her thoughts are jumbled and she has trouble realising this is true – this isn't a dream. Cho really is driving her out of Santa Monica, where they really found Bertram's body and proofs of Red John's unending cruelty. The foggy, ethereal feeling she keeps trying to push away since they went to the desert earlier doesn't mean she's asleep, waiting to wake up in Patrick's arms somewhere.

It just means she's in shock.

Again.

"Hey. You okay?" asks Cho, sensing the shift in her mood.

"I'm sorry," she says, closing her eyes. "We're a mess. _I'm_ a mess. I shouldn't have broken down on you like that.

\- Remind me how many murder attempts you survived in the last five days?"

The funniest thing is, she can't even remember.

"I count three," he says. "And that's only those I know about. Don't worry about it."

It's dark already when they stops the car in front of an hotel. Cho quickly books a room for them, then together they help Patrick inside, acting like he's merely drunk instead of shutting down inside. Nobody they meet on their way to the elevator seems surprised – and that's good. They really don't need to attract attention.

"Wait here, I'll go get some food," Cho says, and she's all too happy to let him take care of things a bit longer.

She takes that time to remove Patrick's shoes, then his jacket, vest and belt. He lets her disrobe him without a word, staring at the wall until she gently pushes down on his shoulder – then he crawls under the blankets, rolls himself into a ball of anguish and closes his eyes again. She sits beside him, smoothing the hair on his forehead until he grabs her hand and brings it against his cheek, then lets out a shaken sigh.

There's nothing she'd like better than to smooth out the torment on his features as easily.

She doesn't even have the energy to be startled when Cho comes back.

"Here," he says, passing over a plate of pasta – it smells heavenly. "There's some for Jane too.

\- I'd rather let him sleep right now," she says around a third mouthful.

"What happened to him?"

She swallows, then sets down her still half-full plate on the bed.

"Red John kept trophies," she says quietly, glancing over at his sleeping form. "Pictures of the murder of his daughter."

Cho winces.

"That's terrible.

\- It is. I don't know what he needs – how can I help.

\- Only sleep for now, you'll see later if he needs more. You both need rest. When I talked to you this morning, you were fine. What happened?"

Was it only this morning? She rubs her forehead for a moment, trying to keep track of her jumbled thoughts.

"There was a shooting," she says.

"Another?!

\- Yeah. A hired gun with a professional silencer. But just as he was about to kill us, McAllister appeared out of nowhere, shot him and ran away," she adds with a wince. "God, I sound like a bad movie.

\- ... okay," says Cho, clearly bewildered. "Why would he do that?

\- He's Red John," she says.

"I know.

\- You do?

\- We worked it out. Doesn't explain why he'd save your life.

\- Patrick says it's just mind games, like on the church's roof in Napa.

\- Makes sense," says Cho after a few seconds. "Then what?"

She swallows, averts her eyes.

"We got rid of the body," she mumbles. "Burned it. We couldn't let it there."

Cho stays silent a moment.

"In the desert?" he asks, and she looks at him sharply. "I used to be in a gang, Lisbon. I know how it works. It's not pretty.

\- No, it's not," she whispers. "The smell..."

She jumps off the bed, runs to the bathroom – comes back throat burning, trying to hide the tears in her eyes again.

"Here," says Cho. "Drink some water.

\- Thank you, Kimball," she says quietly.

She sits higher on the bed this time, back against the headrest – and is utterly unsurprised when Patrick senses her presence and latches on her leg as if it was a lifeline. She lets her hand fall on the back of his neck, and he sighs again, without waking up.

Cho watches them, but doesn't say a word.

"After that, we drove to Santa Monica," she says, voice a bit steadier. "We found Bertram in that house – dead for at least a day, maybe more. It was a set-up, meant to frame us – my guess is McAllister is planning to disappear, and he wanted to make sure Patrick would be either in prison, or – too broken to follow. Maybe both. He's done something like that before, with Timothy Carter. Mind games."

Cho nods and frowns, clearly mulling those information over.

"Why frame Bertram?

\- I'm not sure," she admits. "He was on Patrick's list. Maybe that's why. They escaped together from police custody after the meeting at Jane's house.

\- It could have been Smith. Or Haffner. He could have planted the pictures in the shack, it would have been easier. Why didn't he?

\- I don't know. We'll have to ask Patrick when he wakes up," she says quickly, trying to cover her wince at Ray's name.

Cho stays silent for a moment.

"You call him Patrick," he says.

"I do?"

She blinks.

 _Oh. When did that happen?_

Trying to cover the heat in her cheeks, she grabs the pasta plate and eats a forkful. It's cold – not very enjoyable. Still, it does wonders to help her avoid Cho's raised eyebrows.

"You're sleeping together.

\- Of course not!"

 _At least not how he implies it._

Silence.

"But you love each other."

She averts her eyes, then yawns – and she doesn't even have to fake it.

"I think I need to sleep," she mutters, still unwilling to look her colleague in the eye.

"Alright. I'll call Rigsby."

This time she stares.

"Aren't you staying here tonight? I thought...

\- There's only two beds," says Cho.

It takes a few seconds to her brain to realise why it may be relevant. Then she blushes so fiercely she must be glowing in the dark.

"I'll be back with breakfast. Stay here, don't get out for any reason, at least until Jane is back to himself."

She nods, mind blank and exhausted – and while Cho packs up the leftovers, she tries to disentangle herself from Patrick's octopus grip, with moderate success.

"You can let go. I'll be right back," she whispers to his ear – and that, surprisingly, does the trick.

Cho is waiting by the side of the door, still watching them with dark all-seeing eyes.

"Thank you," she says. "For everything.

He nods.

"He better help you get out of this mess," he says before closing the door behind him.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Maze**_


	20. Maze

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** When I opened my computer this morning to write this chapter, I had no idea at all what would happen in it – and I really mean that. So I let the story take over, and (unsurprisingly perhaps) it ran away from me and went into directions I never even considered. There's something in this chapter I didn't intend to happen at all, but I'm pretty confident you'll enjoy it – probably a lot more than if it didn't appear, as I was planning.  
Once again I have to say, I'm very grateful (and a bit bewildered) by all your nice comments, both guests and logged-in reviewers. Thank you, all of you, you make this challenge a daily joy to write.

 **Warning:** Huge fight (and I mean _huge_ ), followed by a healthy dose of fluff to soothe your pains. You should be fine.

* * *

 **Chapter 20 - Maze**

She wakes up in bed alone.

A full eight hours of sleep leaves her with lingering tiredness but a regained sense of self. She doesn't realise right away Patrick isn't sleeping next to her – the piles of blankets are too soft, too warm and too comfortable, and she feels safe for the first time in forever. But when she stretches her arm, fully expecting her fingers to meet soft curls on a pillow, the cold empty sheets she finds instead are a very unwelcome surprise.

She groans.

 _Where did he go?_

Her hopes he might be in the bathroom are crushed when she sits up and sees the small room darkened, its door fully opened. His shoes are missing, too – it's like he never were in here to begin with. With an angry sigh she gets up and, still somewhat bleary eyed, starts rummaging in her pockets to find her phone.

It goes straight to voice mail.

Of course. That would've been way too easy.

With an intense feeling of _déjà-vu_ , she calls Cho, who answers after four long rings.

"Yeah," he grunts, and she feels bad for waking him up but this – this is an emergency.

"Pa – er, _Jane_ wasn't here when I woke up. I don't know where he went," she says, anger and worry at war in her voice. "His shoes are missing and he's not answering his phone.

\- Of _course_ ," groans Cho.

And she gets the sudden urge to laugh, because this is so unbelievably _normal_. This is what they know. This is what they learned to expect from Patrick – unruly, chaotic, dangerously careless behaviour and messes. Unending messes. But laughter would send her in hysterics – and she needs her concentration.

"I'll be right there, don't step out of the room.

\- Bring coffee!"

A new wave of worry crashes on her as soon as she hangs up. Why would he leave? It makes no sense. Last night he clung to her like a drowning man – not to mention his emotional breakdown making him nearly unresponsive. There's no way he faked that – and he had no reason to. But he had no reason to leave, either, so _why?_

Her thoughts keep running into a circle. She tries to distract herself with a shower, but she's too anxious to allow herself the extended luxury of warm water on her back – and with that crashing sound in her ears, she could miss his return. So she quickly washes herself and jumps into clean clothes, then starts pacing, barely aware of the wet waves dripping all over her back.

 _It's taking too long. Why is it so long?_

The pacing is making her dizzy. She sits back on the edge of the bed, her frayed nerves making get up once again, then back down in quick succession. On impulse, she grabs his pillow and, hiding her face in the plush fabric, takes a deep breath.

Honey, green wood, black tea and light spices.

 _At least she didn't imagine him sleeping here._

Just as she's about to get up and pace some more, the door opens with a great crash. Jane gets in first, roughly pushed inside the room by Cho – and she lets out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding when she realises he's unharmed.

 _He's fine._

"Look who I found on the side of the road, trying to escape," he says. "Good thing I borrowed the car yesterday night.

\- Come on, Cho, really? I wasn't trying to escape!" says Patrick, half-whining, half-laughing – all wrong. "I was just in search of my morning eggs.

\- Yeah. That's why I had to convince you to get in the car at gunpoint. Nice try."

She drinks in the sight of him, all bright smile and sunny disposition, a startling contrast with his previous demeanour – but his hands clenching and unclenching, the tired look in his eyes, the pale sickly glow of his skin gives him away. He's unharmed, but he isn't well.

He isn't well at all.

"Here, your coffee. I got you two some breakfast too, if you want to eat.

\- Thank you, Kimball," she says quietly, taking a long sip of the hot beverage.

It warms her somewhat – but she has trouble tasting anything at all.

"I need to go check on Rigsby and Van Pelt," says Cho. "They aren't answering their phone. It's possible they are busy, but better take no chance.

\- You're right. Call me as soon as you have news, okay?

\- Will do," he says, then glances toward Jane. "Keep that one on a leash."

She nods – follows him to the outside door, watches him leave, then takes a deep breath to steel herself. When she gets back to the room, Patrick is turning his back to her, hands clenching on the pillow she didn't take time to put back where it belonged. Worry rising again inside her, she bites her lip, walk to him and touches his arm.

He flinches.

And suddenly the worry becomes a tight ball of anger, because that small gesture is enough to make her understand exactly what he was trying to do.

"You were leaving," she says, voice deceptively quiet.

He flinches again. Throws the pillow away, turns to face her.

"I was," he says, all haunted eyes and quivering hands.

"You promised you wouldn't leave me behind.

\- Are you planning to keep me here at gunpoint, too?

\- You know I wouldn't do that to you.

\- Then I'll be leaving again. Don't worry, you can keep the car."

She watches him pick up his bag again with dispassionate eyes. He seems a bit hesitant, too, as if uncertain of what he was doing – but when he doesn't stop and puts a hand on the doorknob, she calls to him.

"Patrick," she says, still quietly. "I won't try to stop you. If you really want to go, then go. But," she adds, and this time she lets him hear the cold, cold anger she feels. "If you cross that threshold, _I will never, ever forgive you_."

He stops.

For a long moment he stays there, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding his bag, head tilted toward the door and shoulders slumped in misery – and she stays without moving either, arms crossed, mind blank with fury, watching him struggle without a hint of sympathy.

Then he drops the bag and violently bangs on the door. Breathing harshly, he turns to her.

"You're being unfair," he says.

"Excuse me?!

\- Red John killed my family! _Mine!_ " he growls. "And I will cut him open like he did to my daughter, and you – you have _no right_ to get in my way!"

She opens her mouth in outrage.

"Is that what you think I've been doing? _Getting in the way?_

\- Fine! You've been _very helpful_ , is that what you want to hear? But it's way past time I cut you lose, Lisbon, because _I need to do this alone!_ We should have parted ways long ago – you know it was always going to be like that in the end. You're a distraction I cannot afford!

\- _You egotistical bastard!_ " she snarls. "I don't know what dark hole of your convoluted mind you lost yourself in, but in case you need a reminder, you're not the only one who lost people they loved to Red John! Your family gives you first rights to the killing blow, _not to cut me off from this!_ "

Poised in thundering stand-off, they glare at each other, fists coiled at their sides, breathing fast and hard.

"You lost your family, and that is terrible. I never had a husband, I never had a child, and the pain you're in? I can't even begin to understand it. But dismissing me because of that is unfair _of you_ , because right now? I've lost _everything_ to Red John! I have no job anymore, I'm wanted nation-wide by law enforcement, my friends are either dead or in mortal danger –

\- I never asked you to follow me!" he roars. "I never asked you to give your life away, you did that all on your own! Don't try to pin that on me – I don't even know how you didn't give up on me yet! Why didn't you, huh?! Why do you even bother?!

\- It's because _I'm in love with you_ , you jackass! And _how dare you_ ask that question when you already know the answer!" she explodes, barely stopping herself from punching him.

A stricken expression settles on his face, and she rolls her eyes.

"Oh, don't give me the deer-in-headlights look, Patrick, you've known that for years! I've never asked you to feel the same – and _even if you did_ , I won't ask you to say the words. The only thing I'm asking is to _stop trying to leave me behind_. Because that's what _friends_ , what _people who love each other_ do – they stay _beside_ each other in time of need. And right now? _I_ need _you!_ And I think _you_ need _me_ too."

She takes a deep breath and, for the first time since he came back in the room, breaks eye contact.

"So if you really want to leave, _just go_. I won't try to stop you. Take all the time you need to think about it – honestly, I can't even look at you right now."

Swallowing hard, she turns away, settling beside the window so she can look outside, distract herself enough to push back the urge to turn back to him. Their room is located high in the hotel building – high enough to let her admire for a moment how the sunlight glitters off the palm trees in a garden down below. Behind her, she can hear him fall heavily on the bed – and when he sighs deeply, it sends shivers up and down her spine. With a sigh of her own, she closes her eyes and lets her forehead lean on the glass. Her stomach grumbles. She wouldn't mind a bite right now.

It takes a while before she hears him shuffle some more – enough so that the sound startles her a bit. She opens her eyes, and realises the anger she felt is gone. The only thing left is weariness – and a sparkle of fear, because he may still decide to leave. But at this point, there's nothing she can do. She gave it her all – the next move is his.

Then the point is moot, because suddenly his arms circle her waist, her back hits his chest, and his head comes forward and nestles itself in the crook of her neck. With a hitch in her breath, she brings a trembling hand to cover his, the other one climbing to his curls – and when he lets out a thin whine of relief, she lets her head fall against his and closes her eyes.

They stay unmoving for a long time, finding back their strength through contact with each other. And she knows by the way he touches her, by the way he abandons himself against her, something changed between them – somehow their last defences fell off in the middle of that fight, leaving their souls bare and searching, reaching for the other. Somehow they found a second breath together in a place they never would've find alone.

"I'm sorry I tried to leave," he whispers.

"So you're staying?" she asks quietly.

"Yes.

\- That's all I ask for."

He kisses her neck then, gently but intently, and she lets her head fall on his shoulder, leans further against him.

"That was perhaps the most unromantic declaration I've ever heard," he says, and she would hear the grin in his voice even if she didn't feel it on her skin. "Think you can try again, do it better?

\- Jackass," she says without heat, the hint of a smile quirking the sides of her lips.

"I didn't think you'd ever say it aloud," he says, kissing her neck again.

"Hmm. Well, it's a good thing I didn't wait after you. If I had, I'm pretty sure you'd only get off your ass at the last minute and – and crash my wedding in some sort of grand showmanship gesture or something."

He chuckles – it tickles a bit.

"At least it'd be romantic," he quips, and she laughs.

And then she isn't laughing anymore, because his fingers are tightening minutely on her waist and his lips are on hers, gentle and questing and with hints of the storm he hides so well inside. She answers – _of course she answers_ – the same way, tender and vulnerable and with hints of those storms of her own. Then she breaks the kiss and turns in his arms, only to start kissing him again – properly this time.

Both of her hands bury themselves in his hair as she bites his lower lip teasingly, but then his mouth surges hot and wet against hers, a messy crushing of lips with an intensity that would scare her if it didn't find an answering echo deep insider her. His breath is ragged, puffing against her face, and his hands find their way under her shirt, skirting on the skin of her lower back – and both of them are shaking in overwhelmed emotion, clinging to each other hard enough to hurt, without the slightest desire to stop.

Stopping at this point would be impossible anyway.

She feels breathless, light headed – both from lack of air and pure, unadulterated happiness. Because this, this is the first ray of sunlight in days of thunderstorms, something that will stay forever in both heart and mind – and by the way his tongue meets hers, by the way his fingers are mapping the planes of her back, by the way his breath hitches when her hand caresses the back of his neck, she knows he feels the same.

 _He feels the same._

As if there were ever any doubts.

It takes her quite a time to notice the phone ringing in her pocket – and when she does, the temptation to just ignore it is so strong she nearly does. But then her mind kicks back in, and she realises this could be Cho calling to make sure they're alright. Or he could be asking for help. It could be anything at all.

It doesn't make stopping kissing him easier.

He hides his face in her neck again when she brings the device to her ear, latching on the sensitive skin there as if they were still alone.

"Hey Cho," she says breathlessly. "What's up?"

The chuckle on the other side of the line makes her freeze in sudden anxiety. Feeling the change in her body language, Patrick stops kissing her neck and listens intently, brows furrowed in concentration.

"Miss Lisbon, I presume," says the man. "My name is FBI Supervisory Agent Dennis Abbott. I'm very sorry to have to tell you I had to arrest your buddy Cho just moments ago."

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Claim**_


	21. Claim

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** So uhm, last chapter turned out to be pretty much my answer to Blue Bird, sorry about that. I didn't realise how upset I still was by that damn episode... oops. Glad so many of you enjoyed it though! x)  
On another note, only five chapters and an epilogue left! The 31st of October is coming up fast, and I have to admit I have mixed feelings about seeing this story coming to an end. But we're not there yet! So in the meantime, thank you very much and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

 **Warning:** Jane's trickery in this one may not be very clear, and if you have trouble understanding what's going on, I apologise deeply. Most of the details of that stunt were created between 1 and 2 AM right before writing it (it's 4 now, and I'm knackered). I promise to go back and edit/rewrite it as soon as possible, but in the meantime feel free to ask me about the details of his plan.

* * *

 **Chapter 21 - Claim**

They run.

She hangs up as soon as she hears the news. Patrick takes the phone from her hand and crushes it against an outer corner of the wall, removes the battery and throws the broken device on the bed. Then he does the same with his own.

"Come on," she says, already making sure all their things are packed. "Let's go."

They take the stairs, making sure they won't get trapped if the FBI is already waiting for them in the lobby or outside. But nothing seems amiss for now and they walk to the car quickly, but with enough caution that they won't stand out. She reaches it first, sits in front of the wheel and unlocks the passenger's door after starting the engine. As soon as he's seated, she drives toward the highway.

"Where are we going?" she asks, after making sure they aren't followed.

"North," he answers, fiddling with something that looks like a notebook.

She frowns.

"Back to Sacramento?"

His knuckles brush her thigh – perhaps without his knowledge, as he seems completely focused on the road before them. She smiles.

"San Francisco actually. I was thinking...

\- That's dangerous," she quips.

He grins.

"Remember this?" he asks, waving the book he holds a bit. "We found this address book with Bertram's phone.

\- Yes, with a map of California, right?" she frowns. "What does it have to do with anything? You told me it probably had no relation to the Blake Association.

\- Well, we never could figure _that_. I mean, there's no proof one way or the other...

\- Your point?" she says, eyebrows raised.

"We need help," he states plainly. "Law enforcement help. I was leaving this morning because Red John is about to disappear, and if I – if _we_ don't close up on him soon, he'll vanish somewhere and we'll never be able to catch him. Before he does that, though, he'll make sure I can't reach him – either because I'm dead or in prison.

\- Or in an asylum," she adds softly.

He swallows hard.

"Right," he says. "We are wanted right now for his 'murder' in the explosion, and probably for Haffner's and Bertram's too. My bet? He's using my list of suspects and killing them one after the other in order to frame me. Everybody knows what I'm planning to do when I catch him. If the list is leaked to the FBI – and he knew the names before I did, remember? It would be very easy for him to plant it somewhere, or through someone. So if that Abbott guy figured out why they're all dying, then I'm their prime suspect. It's no wonder Cho was arrested – Rigsby and Van Pelt probably are, too.

\- Aiding and abetting," she mutters, heart clenching with worry. "What about Stiles? He was a suspect, too. Why didn't he kill him? He's in FBI custody, it would be very easy to get access to him with his contacts.

\- Maybe he already is," he answers quietly. "We wouldn't know – and that's my point. We need an in – we need someone to be our ear, tell us what is happening so that we can make plans of our own. Right now, we don't have the full picture. But," he adds, grinning. "We do know someone who could help – who would feel obligated to help really."

And he's giving her that playful look, all smug grin and bright eyes – that look he gets when he feels so clever and wants her to ask him what he has in mind. But she spent ten years working with him, and six days now in his quasi-exclusive company. She's starting to understand how he thinks.

"So... J.J. LaRoche?"

It's her turn to grin smugly when surprise flickers on his features. Then he starts pouting, and she laughs.

"That address book waving gave you away," she says, taking pity on him.

"I'm going to have to step my game around you, Miss Lisbon. Are you sure you aren't psychic?" he grins.

"Someone very clever keeps telling me there is no such thing," she smiles back.

His knuckles brush against her thigh again, and this time she takes his hand and squeeze.

"What if he's a member of the conspiracy?" she asks.

"Then it means he isn't a stranger to favours, and that we can get to Red John all the quicker," he says, squeezing her hand back. "We'll be fine. I've got you – and _you_ 've got guns."

She rolls her eyes, then smiles – reluctantly, but smiles all the same. They drive in silence for a while, revelling in the company of each other – revelling in those small touches akin to learning a new language, establishing a new dialogue.

She jumps when something on the dashboard starts flashing and making a shrill noise.

"Crap, we're out of gas again," she groans. "I swear, after this week I'm not leaving town for a _year_.

\- It does get a bit tiring," he says distractedly. "Here, turn right at the next stop, we passed a signboard for a gas station five minutes ago.

\- Mhm. I saw it. I'm starving too. Do you have enough cash left? Do you need to find – or, you know, _make_ more?

\- Don't worry about that, we still have plenty."

She nearly drives past the gas station again, comes back in a u-turn – and finally stops right where she needs to, in front of the gas pump. They get out.

"How much did you win exactly?" she asks, frowning as she picks up the pump and slides the nozzle in the tank.

"Meh, you don't want to know," he grins. "Enough to last another week at least."

She shakes her head.

"Oh God _no_ , not another week of _that!_ Grab some sandwiches or something? And a muffin. I'd really like a muffin.

\- I'll get you the bear claw you really want," he says, waving – already reaching the door.

She rolls her eyes.

 _Typical._

She joins him once the tank is full. He's browsing the fresh food section, a bear claw in hand and two bottles of water in the other. She comes from behind him, picks up the bottles and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"What would you like?" he asks, his eyes just a bit brighter than before. "There's chicken, beef, ham and swiss cheese, some sort of vegetarian... _paste_ thing... None of those look fresh, it's a bit disappointing.

\- Ham and Swiss cheese. Those get picked up the most, so they're fresh. Usually. Wait, is that tomato?

\- Looks like it."

She makes a face.

"Who puts tomato in a ham sandwich?! No wonder the bread is all soggy!

\- No tomato in ham sandwich, duly noted," he chuckles. "Oh look, glasses!

\- Those are reading glasses. You don't need that.

\- Well, we _are_ on the run, Teresa. A little disguise can't hurt.

\- A normal person would pick _sunglasses_. But I guess it's your headache..."

As they walk to the counter, however, Patrick freezes in his tracks.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Look up," he whispers.

She does, and – _oh_.

Crap.

 _Crap._

Their pictures are on-screen – old pictures, and they don't have the same hair colour anymore, but their names are written in full letter, their faces are easily recognisable. And under the frames, she can read alarming words.

Dangerous.

Armed.

 _Serial killers._

"We need to get out of here before someone sees us," she says, eyes still glued to the screen.

"That might be a problem," he answers quietly.

She glances his way – and realises he isn't looking at the screen, but at the cashier. The pale-faced, wide-eyes, open-mouthed cashier, who is currently holding a phone to his ear.

Acting on instinct, she rummages through his pockets, picks up a wad of cash and throws it on the counter.

"For the gas!" she yells, dragging Patrick after her to the car.

They drive away in a hurry, tyres screeching and clouds of sand following them on a dozen feet. Feeling anxious, she pushes the car quicker than she normally would – until she realises Patrick is quietly laughing beside her.

"What's funny?

\- You," he answers with a chuckle. "Only you would bother paying for gas in this situation.

\- We're not thieves," she says, frowning.

"That's what I'm talking about. How much time before we reach San Francisco?

\- About half an hour. We're getting close to San Leandro.

\- Think you can make that twenty minutes?"

She turns to him – and realises she can hear police sirens in the distance.

 _Crap crap crap._

"No need to panic," he says. "Eyes on the road.

\- That kid probably gave them our license plates.

\- Yes, but it doesn't mean they will catch up with us."

Wide-eyed, she turns to him.

"Are you mad? If we're caught in a car chase, we're done! Nobody escapes those out of action movies.

\- We'll be _fine_ , Teresa. Now really, _eyes on the road_ please. You're making me a little nervous here."

The sirens are slowly getting closer.

"Alright," he suddenly says. "This is what we're going to do. As soon as we get near the airport, get off the highway. We're going to make it look like as if we're planning to take a flight.

\- They'll never believe that! They must have put us on the no-flight list a week ago!

\- Ah, yes, but the funny thing about airports is they have parking lots – a lot of them. They'll assume we want to change cars, so they'll follow. Then they'll realise we abandoned our vehicle, so half of them will scour the parking lots and the other half, naturally, will check if we tried to booked a flight.

\- But we didn't.

\- Actually, I did," he grins. "Flight to Chicago – it leaves in... ah, an hour and a half. Perfect timing," he adds with a quick glance to his watch.

She blinks.

" _How?!_

\- I still had my phone this morning," he answers, shrugging. "It was a misdirect, of course, I had no intention to take that flight. My point is – "

He then proceeds to explain one of the most convoluted, demented, impossibly stupid plan she ever heard since _that one_ where she had to let him shoot her. Feeling a bit shell-shocked, she stares at him in horror for a second before she remembers she's still on the road, driving a car.

"That's _a lot_ of 'ifs' to base a plan on," she says.

"And _that_ is the exit to the airport," he grins.

" _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee_ ," she mutters, turning the car sharply.

She can't see the police cars behind them, but she can hear them – either she plays along or they get caught. And while she's pretty sure Patrick can get out of custody easily – he did it at least once that she know of – she's aware she can't do the same.

Prison isn't an interesting venue.

Once in the inside parking, they stop the car in the middle of the alley and, after picking up the bare essentials – Bertram's phone and address book, their three guns – they leave the area.

"Good luck," she says before parting ways.

She doesn't need to add more. He knows.

Still muttering her prayers, she crouches behind a pillar and waits. Somewhere, water is dripping. Less than five minutes later – five minutes that seem an eternity – she finally hears them.

She just hopes this will work. If it doesn't, they'll be in very, very deep trouble.

Tyres screeching. Doors slamming. Angry voices yelling.

They found the car.

Eyes half-closed, she tries to count the number of different voices she hears.

 _One... young man barely out of his teens..._

 _Two... middle-aged woman with a thick southern accent..._

Running footsteps. Yells again. She won't dare look around the pillar – not yet.

 _Three... that one has a Spanish lilt..._

 _Four..._

They're still too close. She needs them to leave.

 _Go away. Come on!_

Five – a new voice, low and rumbly. Giving orders. Coming her way. Coiled in unbearable tension, she waits. Counts to ten. To twenty.

Still coming closer.

 _Too close._

She bolts.

Footsteps follow her. Quickly – they are running after her, and others are still yelling in the distance. She tries to dodge, to run around cars, to escape. The exit is near – if she can just reach it...

And then the man tackles her, and she hits the ground – hard.

She feels blood trickling from her lip.

"I got her!" he yells, nearly sitting on her back. "Where's your accomplice, huh? _Where's Patrick Jane?_ "

"You won't get him!" she spits. "He's gone already!

\- Yeah? We'll see. If he's still around, guys, find him! I'll bring this one back to the station. Teresa Lisbon, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."

Full of defiance, she keeps her mouth shut – and glares as soon as she's allowed to be back on her feet. He takes her guns – her own, and the one with the silencer. Cold metal circles her wrists, startling her, and she's pushed roughly in the back seat of a police car.

She never thought she'd one day get to see it from this perspective.

Leaning her forehead against the metal wire, she closes her eyes, prays again. The car starts – slowly at first, then a bit quicker. She keeps her eyes closed. Keeps praying. They get outside the parking lot – sunlight hits her face.

The car stops.

 _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners..._

People are talking outside, but she doesn't listen, can't listen – blood is pulsing too loudly in her ears.

Then the car starts again, picks up speed quickly. It turns, and turns again, and suddenly she realises the quick pace they're going at means they're on the highway.

Only then does she let out the breath she was holding.

"Hey," he says quietly, glancing at her in the mirror. "Are you alright?

\- Yeah," she mumbles. "I think you bruised my ribs with that tackle.

\- Sorry. I did learn from the best."

He grins at her, all wet hair smoothed on his head and squinting behind glasses he doesn't need.

"You were very convincing back there," he says, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Right back at you," she laughs. "How did you manage to get the cuffs?

\- Easily," he says flippantly. "The first officer to get inside had them well in sight, right beside his badge. I lifted both at the same time.

\- They're still on my wrists, by the way," she grins. "Kinky much?"

His mouth opens and closes without letting out a sound. He looks deeply startled – which is exactly what she was trying to achieve. She laughs again, and he rolls his eyes, making her laugh even harder.

He drives them across the Oakland bridge before turning in a quiet street and stopping the car. Only then does he let her out and removes the cuffs from her wrists – very obviously putting them in his pocket with a devilish grin instead of throwing them back on the seat. She blushes, and he's the one laughing this time.

"How far are we from LaRoche's?" she asks as they start walking along the street.

"Far," he answers. "I know you said we're not thieves, but... We'll have to, uhm, _borrow_ a new car to get there."

She makes a face, and shakes her head.

"Sometimes I think there won't be a law left in the book that we didn't break when this is over," she grumbles.

He stops near a dark sedan parked on the side – unlocks the door in less than a second and slides in the driver's seat.

"Hop in," he grins. "Time to claim a debt."

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Panic**_


	22. Panic

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** I really have to stop writing these chapters until 4 AM. x_x  
So this chapter is dedicated to **Rosepeony** who called me out on something that happened in a previous chapter, was totally right, and made me realise I didn't get my whole point across to you. So this is me trying to undo that damage – because while I _did_ plan pretty much everything in this chapter, some parts of it were supposed to occur in two chapters instead, in another setting entirely, and wouldn't have had the same impact. Thank you, Rose. :)  
(And people, if you feel like something I wrote was wrong or weird or needs to be expanded on, please tell me! I don't mind people disagreeing with something I wrote and calling me out on things, especially as I'm writing this so quickly I barely have time to think about the content! On the contrary, _please do_ , it helps me become a better writer!)

* * *

 **Chapter 22 - Panic**

He insists they take some time to eat before heading to J.J.'s – at this point, Teresa's grumbling stomach is scarier than her guns, especially when she glares on top of it. She tries to protest, but he has logic on his side – at least in most restaurants and coffee shops there isn't any television to out them at the most inopportune moment.

They stop near a quiet place in a desolate neighbourhood, park the car and carry everything they own with them – which by this point honestly isn't much, as they had to leave their already light bag in the car they left behind earlier.

The coffee shop has shoddy outside looks, with a run-down interior – nobody would ever think of calling this place fancy. But its food is cheap and plentiful – and fresh, unlike the gas station's sandwiches. A few students are littered across the small room, most of them engrossed in large hardcovers and notebooks, and while they wait in line he finds himself watching them with wary eyes – envying their simple life, full of uncomplicated deadlines and non-threatening assignments.

He hides a smile. No doubt they wouldn't agree with this assessment.

"Look at them," she whispers, gazing across the room the same way he was just minutes ago. "They make me feel so old.

\- You aren't old," he chuckles. "You lack sleep. It makes even the youngest college student feel ancient.

\- How would you know? You never went!" she laughs.

"I so _did!_ " he says, pretending to be offended.

He's pretty sure the happy expression on his face gives him away.

"You went to college," she says, half-amused, half-disbelieving. " _You?_ How? When?

\- Yes _me_ , conning my way in of course, and I was seventeen," he counts on his fingers, grinning. "To be fair, I didn't last two weeks, it was so boring. Psycho-babble and all that rot..."

She scoffs. They pay quickly, grab their plates and sit in a corner of the room, far from the windows but close to the door, making sure to turn their chairs on the side so looking at their faces will prove difficult.

"I can't imagine you in college," she says, amusement clear on her features. "You must have been a terrible student. Disruptive, know-it-all, cocky as hell...

\- Pretty much," he admits freely. "I was kicked out of half my classes after the first week and didn't bother coming back after the second. They had nothing to teach me on the human mind anyway, and I had already accomplished my goal by that point.

\- Your goal?

\- Making my father mad," he grins, and she laughs.

They eat quickly – being famished helps, but mostly they just want to get back to a less public place. To security, if such a thing still exists somewhere.

"I need to go to the bathroom," he says. "Be right back.

\- I'll wait for you near the car," she answers, and he nods.

He relieves himself, then washes his hands – eyes trailing on his reflection in the mirror, taking in the tired lines of his face, the scruffy beard, the puffy eyes. He feels – _and looks_ – like a vagrant. Like he did all those years ago, when he went from the hospital to the CBI headquarters with barely a few days in-between to get used to living in the outside world again – a broken, derelict, grieving mess on a lonely road of revenge.

Sometimes he thinks the only thing that changed in those ten years is the fact he isn't as lonely anymore.

As he turns toward the door, his eyes glance over the utility dispenser near the hand dryer. His mind of course takes it as a challenge to notice those small details – condoms of course, and pain relievers, and chewing gum, and –

 _Condoms._

He stops.

Hand reaching blindly for the wall, trying to regain a physical balance he doesn't need – because his mind is the unsettled part of him, not his body, and all the walls in the world won't be enough to help him.

For a while he stays rooted to the spot, mind whirling all over the place, eyes frozen on the dispenser.

Would she expect...?

Surely not.

What if she does?

 _She wouldn't._

She's a woman used to unromantic encounters as a way to find periodical human warmth and contact, one night stands to scratch the itch before going back to work and dealing with murderers every day. They haven't talked about what they are to each other – and that talk cannot happen as long as Red John is alive – but they do seem to seek comfort in each other's arms more often than they used to. And they kissed. _That_ must count for something. So – would it be such a leap to think –

But she wouldn't ask for _that_ , wouldn't she? Of course not. With her Catholic education, she's more likely to let him set the pace of this – _whatever it is_ between them right now. Well – alright, she teased him earlier about the cuffs, but he teased right back, that's how they are – it doesn't mean anything. She wouldn't.

But – _what if she does?_

And even if she doesn't –

– what if _he_ does? What if he _wants her_ to expect them to –

He remembers Sam taking him aside when he was fifteen for a mortifying talk about sexual diseases – stressing the point across that, as travelling folks with no medical support of any kind, he could never afford to be naive about the issue of protection. Remembers her very firm answer when he asked her how should he know when to keep condoms in his wallet, or when to go without.

 _If you're asking yourself the question, Paddy, it means you need to be prepared._

Swallowing hard, he fishes a bunch of quarters from his pocket. With shaking hands, he inserts them one after the other, dropping two of them on the sticky floor, until he hears a metallic click – and suddenly he's holding a shining square of plastic and foil, and _he has no idea what to do with it_.

He drops it in his pocket like a burning piece of coal – and immediately fishes it back when he remembers how Teresa picked up money from that same pocket earlier to pay the gas station's cashier. Then he plays with the idea of putting it in his vest pocket – and realises, no, she has an habit of picking up pens from there too. Cringing, he rubs his eyes with his fingers, wondering what to do.

 _Inside jacket maybe?_

Perhaps. She's not emboldened enough to put her hands there.

 _Yet._

When he comes out, she's waiting for him leaning against the wall, worried lines between her eyebrows.

"Hey," she says quietly. "You've been there a long time. Are you okay?

\- I'm fine," he answers with an easy smile – one that must not reach his eyes, because she frowns further and lightly touches his arm.

"What's wrong? You look... anxious."

 _Panicked._

He sighs, picks up her hand and kisses her thumb.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he says, hating that his voice sounds so emotional. "Maybe later?"

She blinks, then nods.

"Sure. As long as you know I'm here if you need me.

\- Of course I know that."

The drive to J.J.'s house should have been quick, but they find themselves stuck in afternoon traffic across the city, turning a twenty minutes trip in a nearly two hours one. By the time they can get out of the main streets, both are annoyed and tired.

"How do we go about this?" she asks as he parks two streets further.

"He's probably out of a job – if I'm right, he must be at home already. We can go about it two ways. Either we sneak in the back and get in, then try to take him by surprise...

\- Or?" she prompts when he stops talking.

He grins.

"Or we knock at the front door."

She seems to be thinking, rubbing her lower lip with the tip of her thumb.

"Knocking at the front door seems like the better plan. We already know what he does to intruders," she says.

"That's what I was thinking too," he grins. "Let's?

\- Let's."

They walk side by side, the back of their hands brushing – and he would take her hand, he really would, but he dares not.

The content of his jacket's inside pocket burns a hole over his heart.

"Knock," she says. "I'll stay on the side with my gun, just in case."

He nods. Knocks.

They wait.

Nothing happens – but then, just as he's about to knock again, the door opens on J.J. rotund face.

And gun.

"Don't shoot!" he says, raising his hands in the air.

"Don't shoot!" says Teresa at the same time, pointing her own weapon at him.

He takes a small moment to appreciate the contrast in their voice tone – he nearly playful, she definitely fierce.

LaRoche's eyes are going from one to the other, back and forth seamlessly, and as seconds pass in silent face-off, his frown deepens further and further.

"You both are wanted by the police," he enunciates slowly. "I _am_ the police. _Why_ are you here?

\- Meh," he grins. "We were hoping for a little chat with an old friend. Come on, J.J., let us in?

\- I have _no idea_ why you think I would do that.

\- Well, first because you know we _aren't_ murderers..."

He takes a chance – moves one hand lightly, scratches his ear. LaRoche doesn't move. He grins again.

"And because we're here to settle a debt."

For a long moment they stay unmoving, staring at each other – Teresa with an anxious focus, LaRoche with conflict written all over his features, and he, with an easy going grin, waiting to see what will unfold.

"Very well," sighs the man, opening the door further to let them pass.

"Thank you, J.J.! Good man!

\- _Don't_ push me, Patrick."

Neither LaRoche nor Teresa lower their weapon – and he's starting to get a little tired of that.

"Can we _please_ stop playing cowboys?" he asks as soon as the door is closed behind them. "We're not here to harm each others, right? Why don't we settle this with a cup of tea? I, for one, would very much like tea."

He takes a chance – saunters to the kitchen before any of his companions can react, only the slight cringe in his eyes bearing witness of his inner tension. He's pretty sure J.J. won't shoot, but with a man who answers the door at gunpoint, there's really no way to know...

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Teresa lower her weapon slightly – and when LaRoche lowers his, she puts hers back in it's holster at her hip. It only takes half a second for him to do the same.

Good.

"I'm sorry, Agent LaRoche," she says. "We don't want to cause you trouble, but we really need help.

\- There is no CBI anymore, miss Lisbon. You can drop the 'Agent' and call me J.J.," says the man with a small smile.

Interesting.

"Oh, you have oolong!" he says, picking up a box on the shelf. "Mind if I help myself?

\- You'll do it anyway," Teresa mutters behind him.

LaRoche is silent, staring at them with a frown – clearly waiting for explanations, but seemingly in no hurry to ask. He takes his time, putting water to boil and carefully picking up teacups, dropping the little leaf balls in a metal strainer, then the strainer in a teapot.

"Well?" asks J.J. after fifteen minutes of this.

"Excellent tea," he answers with a grin – enjoying very much the way LaRoche's expression becomes thunderous.

Then Teresa kicks him in the chin.

"Ouch! Why would you do that? It hurts!

\- Stop playing with him!" she whispers sharply. "You have no reason to antagonise him!

\- Indeed," says J.J., taking a seat on the other side of the table.

He puts his gun on the table, keeps his hand on it. Teresa immediately puts her hand on hers.

"Oh, _come on_ ," he says, rolling his eyes.

But his ploy worked – and the fact LaRoche isn't much flustered is very telling. Either the man knows they are harmless – to him at least, he amends – or he feels secure and powerful enough to react as if they were no threat. He's leaning on his first idea.

"J.J., before I tell you anything, I would like you to look me in the eye and tell me what you know of the Blake Association," he says, suddenly serious.

Watching carefully for any sign of deception, he waits for the man's answer. LaRoche first pales a bit – then stares.

" _Don't_ lie to me," he says when the man opens his mouth. "Don't you even think about it.

\- I wasn't thinking about it," says J.J. with a frown. "I was thinking about how to word my answer."

With a short intake of breath, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

And of course, Teresa is immediately on her feet, pointing the gun at him again.

"Don't _fret_ , miss Lisbon," he says. "I was merely proving to you that I am no member."

LaRoche bares his shoulder for them to see – and indeed, there is no trace of tattoo. He lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, and hears his partner near him do the same.

"I was contacted a year ago by a man from Homeland Security – they had found hints of suspicious activity amongst the CBI. A mole, or with more accuracy, more than one. My position in Internal Affairs was ideal for a little – _investigating_ work. Unfortunately, while I did uncover some lower-level members of the conspiracy in time, I never knew the full scale of the whole affair before last week's _grand reveal_. I take it you had a hand in that?

\- Not... really," says Teresa. "My team did.

\- Very sharp of them," he says. "It's a shame they got arrested."

And there's a question in the way he looks at them now, but first they need to be sure.

"J.J.," he says. "We need help from someone we can trust. Can we ask you for twenty-four hours of your time, starting now? No call to take us in, a fair sharing of information – going both ways – and maybe a place to sleep for tonight?

\- And my debt to you will be paid in full?" LaRoche asks. "You won't ask for anything else?

\- I promise," he says, sharing a look with Teresa.

The man's eyes move again from one to the other – probably gauging their sincerity. Then he sighs and nods.

"Very well," he says. "I'm listening."

So they tell him about the Red John suspects. They tell him about the meeting, and about the stun bomb, and the murder attempt at the hospital. They tell him about the burner phone in Bertram's glove box, the explosion of McAllister's car as they were about to leave, and about the shooting in the motel room. They tell him about Haffner in the shack, and how they managed via hypnotism to find out what was written in his hand. They tell him about Bertram, dead in the Santa Monica house – and he even takes out of his pocket that strange broken lighter he found there, which elicits some noises of annoyance from Teresa, who didn't yet know about it. They tell him about being framed.

They don't tell him about McAllister or the Red John connection, and they don't tell him about Sam and Pete, nor about the second shooting and the body they had to burn.

They don't tell him about Charlotte.

And of course, they don't tell him about their new found closeness, but he knows J.J. is not stupid – the man must have guessed _that one_ by now.

Somewhere along the conversation, LaRoche removed his hand from the gun on the table, then the gun from the table – and later, still talking, they share a meal as the sun sets slowly. As incredible as it sounds, he believes them.

 _What a relief._

"That phone we got in Bertram's car," Teresa says. "We asked for the team to pass it along to the techs, but things were so hectic, we never got the results back. Do you think you could – you know, make some calls?"

LaRoche nods slowly.

"I could do that, miss Lisbon. But I would like it if you two could answer a question of my own.

\- Shoot," he grins – then drops the grin. "Oh no, please _don't_ shoot!"

They all laugh – which is exactly what he wanted. To see LaRoche relaxed enough to joke around with them is a very, very good sign.

"This morning, you escaped police custody at the Oakland Airport. San Francisco PD wasn't very happy – and I have to admit, _that_ made my day. How did you manage that?"

He glances to Teresa, meets her eye – they grin and chuckle.

"First we got in the inside parking lot, then we stopped the car in the middle of the alley so that they'd be forced to get out and away from _their_ cars," he explains. "Teresa hid behind a pillar nearby, and I went inside – I knew they would send people in the airport to warn the Air Marshals about the flight I booked as a misdirection earlier that day. So I went to the bathroom, wet my hair and flattened it on my head – everybody knows I have curly hair, it was the easiest way to look very unlike myself – then put on reading glasses and waited. When I saw the officers coming inside, I lifted one of their badges, went back outside and started giving orders to direct the search, keeping the area where I knew Teresa was hiding for myself. Act with enough authority and assurance in a stressful situation, everybody will think you're in charge.

\- Then he came in my direction, I started to run," she grins. "He tackled and arrested me, and after that we took off into one of the police cars they very generously left near the entrance for us.

\- We were stopped on our way by security establishing a perimeter, but I only had to flash the badge – and when I told them I was taking her into custody, they didn't look twice and let us pass. _Et voilà!_ "

LaRoche shakes his head, but the little smile on his lips is telling.

"I don't know how many laws you broke doing that...

\- Meh," he laughs, waving a hand in the air.

\- ... but I have to admit, I enjoyed that little tale very much. Thank you for sharing it with me.

\- It was fun," says Teresa, yawning. "Oh, sorry. We had a long day.

\- Understandable," says the man. "I have a guest bedroom upstairs. Perhaps you'd like to stay? I still have to make some phone calls for you. At this hour, there isn't a lot of chances to get the information you want.

\- We would like that very much," he says. "Thank you, J.J."

The guest room turns out to hold a closet with men's pyjamas around his size, which is a relief – sleeping in his suit is well and good enough for a nap, but at night, he likes to wear looser and warmer clothes.

"They are my brother's," says LaRoche, holding a pile of blankets. "He comes here a few times a year. I don't think he'll mind if I share his closet with you.

\- J.J.," says Teresa. "I was wondering – didn't you have a little dog last time we met?

\- Oh yes. She's with my brother – you are very lucky I was here when you came knocking, you know. I have to take a flight to D.C. tomorrow afternoon. I'll be gone for a week."

With LaRoche's permission, they take turns in the bathroom – he lets Teresa go first, making small talk with their host while she enjoys the warm water. Then when she comes out, clad in masculine nightwear half-falling over her shoulders, he excuses himself to the bathroom.

The shower is incredible.

When he comes back to the room, warm and relaxed, he isn't surprised to find Teresa sitting near the window, head against the glass. She seems to do that a lot.

"Hey," he says, lightly rubbing her back. "Everything alright?

She hums, leaning back against his leg instead. Her hot breath on his hip makes him shiver. He slides a hand in her hair, enjoying the silky feeling.

"I was thinking, and – I wanted to say I'm sorry," she says after a moment.

"What for?" he whispers.

"This morning, what I said to you? It wasn't right."

He keeps silent.

"I used what we – what we mean to each other to keep you by my side, and – I shouldn't have. It was wrong, I was very unfair to you, and – Patrick, I'm so sorry."

With a small sigh, he removes his hand from her hair et takes a step back, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Why did you?" he asks.

She looks at her feet for a few seconds before meeting his eyes again.

"I have no excuse. I was afraid – lashed out at you. You didn't deserve that."

She takes a deep breath.

"So – if you want to leave –

\- I don't want to leave," he says firmly.

She looks at him, blinking once, twice. He pats the side of the bed – and she joins him, leaning against him again.

"You were right," he says in her ear. "We're stronger together."

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Velvet**_


	23. Velvet

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** I'm sorry I didn't reply to your reviews yet. The number of scenes I need to write in those chapters is getting higher and higher as the number of chapters left declines, because I always have to push some things back otherwise you'll get 10k words chapters and I'll have a mental breakdown. So for now, until the beginning of November, there's a big chance I won't be able to reply as I usually do. But I do read all your comments, and I'm so grateful for your support. Thank you, all of you, and be sure I'll answer to everyone individually as soon as possible.

 **Warning:** Not yet 18+, but you might want to make sure no one is reading over your shoulder if you're at work.

* * *

 **Chapter 23 - Velvet**

She wakes up slowly to the sound of rumbling thunder.

The room is still dark. How much of that is due to the lack of sunlight, how much to the early time of day, she doesn't know. She doesn't care. Everything is warm and comfortable and safe. And Patrick is still sleeping next to her, all tousled hair and relaxed features and mouth half-open – so she takes a deep, slow breath, turns on her left side and buries herself under his arm, her right hand coming to a rest on the second button of his pyjama shirt.

She faintly hears his steady heartbeat – feels his lazy breaths coming and going like waves on a beach under her fingers. It's hypnotic. And for a time she aligns her own breath on his, lets go of the lingering stress and anxiety – allows herself to just be. Here, with him.

Morning light gently seeps through the clouds into the room.

It would be so easy to pretend everything is normal again.

Stretching her legs and back lazily brings her closer to him, and without over-thinking her actions – or doing any kind of thinking at all really – she throws a knee over his thigh, unfastens that second button and slips her hand under his shirt. The skin under is hot and smooth, scattered with patches of fine hairs, soft as velvet.

Eyes still closed, she smiles. Unfasten the buttons below.

Her fingers dance lightly on his chest, getting familiar with the inward curving angle of his stomach, the small bumps of his ribs, the tear drop dip of his navel – and to the way he reacts to her touch, shivering ever so slightly in his sleep. Still all innocuous caresses and mindless exploration – until she brushes on a hardened nipple and, with a sharp intake of breath, he tenses and surges up under her palm.

Propping herself on her elbow, unmoving hand sprawled on his bared chest, she watches carefully the fluttering eyelids, the furrowed brows, the parted lips from which escape shallow breaths.

He's beautiful.

 _And waking up_.

With new intent, she moves her fingers upward, to the long neck uncovered by the chin tilted backward – carefully skirting up and down, from just below the ear to collarbone, collarbone to navel, navel to hips and back up to the taunt muscles of his chest.

Then his eyes open, and she barely gets a glimpse of his darkened pupils before he flips her over and, holding her on top of him, kisses her deeply. His hands are roaming everywhere from her sides to her hips to the back of her thighs, and she only realises her shirt bunched up under her breasts when she feels burning hot skin against her bare stomach. Heat pools coiled and low in her belly when, coming up for air, he lets his head fall back on the pillow with a small throaty groan.

"Good morning," he laughs, breathless.

"Hello," she grins, still propped up on him, legs on each sides of his hips.

"That's a – a nice way to wake up.

\- Is it?

\- Yeah," he gasps, one of his hands climbing up to her cheek, stroking it with trembling fingers.

The little she can see of his pupils is vividly green, a startling contrast with the morning light basking everything else in shades and muted colours. He smiles up with crinkled eyes, a genuine happy thing that melts her inside – until dark clouds dim the room and thunderstorms are born on his face. Suddenly the hand that was hanging tight on her hip is rubbing his forehead, covering half his features, just enough so that she can't exactly define what changed his mood so quickly. When he looks back at her and smiles again, it's only a sliver of what it was only minutes ago.

"What time is it?" he asks, voice carefully controlled.

"I have no idea, let me check," she says, trying to cover the confusion she feels by slipping off him, rolling to the other side and getting up.

She can hear him breathing slow and careful, obviously tricking his body into calming down, and not for the first time, wishes she could do the same.

"Half past ten!" she says when she finds her watch. "Oh my God, it's so late!

\- Time to get up, then."

She starts picking up her clothes in a hurry, but he stops her retreat to the bathroom with a touch to her arm.

"Stay here, I'll change outside," he says softly, regret obvious in the downward slope of his mouth.

As he turns to the door and opens it, she calls him back.

"We need to talk about this," she says quietly. "If you're uncomfortable with anything I do, I need to know.

\- It's not that," he says, shaking his head. "It's nothing you've done. It's just – look, now is not the time. Let's keep that conversation on the back burner for now, alright?

\- Of course."

She isn't surprised to find J.J. cooking in the kitchen when she comes down. What surprises her is Patrick and he chatting amicably, trading cooking tips without a care in the world – something she saw her consultant do often as parts of ploys, never genuinely with people outside of the team, and nothing she ever thought LaRoche would ever do. She stays leaning against the door frame for a while, watching them, smiling fondly – two lonely men with much more in common than they even know.

She very carefully avoids thinking about the severed tongue in a Tupperware box she knows he keeps in a safe somewhere – though that ruthlessness certainly makes up for a couple of islands in their common ground.

In any case, the smell coming from the pots and oven is heavenly.

Her eyes fall on the table – and she realises they forgot to pick up the broken Zippo lighter yesterday. Frowning, she holds it up, fiddles with the wheel. She remembers her father having one of those, so long ago. Maybe it lacks a piece of flint? She turns it around – and frowns further.

The bottom of it is flat, with no sign of screw.

There's a line on the side though, a nearly seamless joint she wouldn't have noticed if it was pushed all in. Pulling on it is of course the logical step – and when she sees the USB connector, she feels herself becoming pale.

"Patrick!" she says, staring at the device. "Look!"

He quickly gets by her side and picks up the flash drive, then waves it at J.J. who stayed behind.

"Is there a computer where we can check this out?" he asks.

"Of course," says LaRoche. "Follow me.

\- Where did you find that things again?" she asks.

"On a table in the room where we found Bertram," he answers, and she can feel the stress and anger coming off him like waves. "I'm pretty sure it was deliberately left in sight.

\- By Red John or Bertram?

\- I don't know," he says, frowning.

"Here," says LaRoche. "Let me put it in here..."

He plugs the device in the USB connector on his system unit – a dialogue box appears on screen.

"Password protected," says J.J., looking disappointed.

"We could try to guess it! Let me think..."

She shakes her head, hiding a smile – _of course_ Patrick would be delighted by a new puzzle, even in those circumstances.

"It could self-destroy if it's the wrong one," she says. "Are you sure you want to try this?"

He stares at the screen for a moment, then scowls.

"I don't even know who it belongs too," he grumbles. "I wish Grace was here.

\- Yeah," she says. "Maybe once we're out of this mess."

He nods. LaRoche removes the device from his computer and hands it back to them.

"I made enough food for all of us, if I can interest you in lunch," he says. "Then I will need to go to the airport."

He stares at them pointedly. She blinks.

Fortunately, Patrick is quicker on the uptake.

"Would you like us to drive you there?" he asks. "Of course, we're in need of a car, so we would have to borrow yours...

\- That would be acceptable," says J.J., a small smile quirking his lips. "Of course, should damage happen to my car, I would fully expect you to pay for any repair or replacement needed.

\- Of course," she says, eyes widening at the level of trust the man displays. "We wouldn't dream it any other way."

They take a full hour to eat, enjoying what they instinctively know are the last moments of respite before the end. Then LaRoche picks up his luggage, packs it in the car, and they leave for the airport.

When they stop in the parking lot near the main entrance, LaRoche turns to them.

"I believe we're even now?

\- We are," says Patrick. "Paid in full, and a lot more. Thank you, J.J."

The man looks at him – almost shyly, she thinks.

"Would it be enough to consider me a friend?

\- More than enough," answers Patrick, sounding a bit choked.

LaRoche nods, smiling.

"Do tell me more of your adventures next time we see each other.

\- We will," she says. "Thank you so much. Your help was invaluable."

They spend a few minutes making sure LaRoche gets inside safely. Then Patrick turns to her, and smiles – a little sadly.

"Ready to go?" he asks quietly.

"Where are we going?

\- Sacramento."

She nods, and they leave the parking lot, picking up the highway as quickly as possible.

"J.J. got us some tips about Bertram's phone," he says while driving. "The tech team didn't find a lot of information about the number in the contacts, and it wasn't physically bugged. However, it seems someone downloaded a software made to record every call made with it. The information is sent to a database they couldn't access.

\- So it's definitely linked to the Blake Association," she says, frowning.

"And Red John."

She glances at him sideways – his whitened knuckles hold the wheel much too tightly.

"You want to use the phone to smoke him out," she says.

"Yes.

\- Do you have a plan? Other than calling and asking to speak to Red John?"

He sighs angrily.

"Not yet. I have many plans for when we get face to face, but nothing to get him to meet us. Everything I can think of right now would just send him away in hiding.

\- Alright, let's think about this then," she says, biting her lower lip. "What do we know about him? He's a sociopath, narcissistic, manipulative...

\- Sexually perverted with a taste for violence, especially on women," he adds, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Haffner told me he was abused as a kid," she offers. "And – "

A memory comes to her mind then, and she takes a sharp intake of breath. There's something that happened not too long ago, something that could be incredibly relevant now – a memory of McAllister's intrigued expression when they faced off in Malibu and she forced him to lower his weapon.

"Patrick," she says, looking at him. "Maybe I should be the one calling."

He startles so bad the car skids on the road. Someone behind them honks loudly.

" _Are you mad?_ " he hisses. "Didn't you hear me just now? _He's a sexual pervert with a taste for violence against women!_

\- Do you think I don't know that already?" she says, frowning. "Are you trying to keep me away again? At least hear me out!"

She can see the muscles on his jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically.

"Go on," he says, so quietly she reads it on his lips rather than hear it.

"The fact is, that's exactly why I should be the one calling," she says softly. "You, McAllister – you are so clever sometimes, you underestimate normal people.

\- I don't underestimate you!" he protests.

"Of course you do, you patronise me all the time. And that's why I can surprise you occasionally. Because you're used to be the one to come with brilliant plans, and you're so sure you can predict my every move that whenever I deviate from my usual patterns, even slightly, your brain needs a moment to adapt."

He chuckles bitterly, but doesn't deny.

"And McAllister is the same," she says, emboldened. "When we came face to face in Malibu, after he detonated the stun bomb, there was a moment when I told him to lower his weapon or I would shoot. He's better with a gun than I am, and he was far enough that I could have missed – but he wouldn't. He still lowered his gun, because _he knew_ I would shoot, even if it meant taking the risk that he'd kill me. And when he did it, he had this – this expression of curiosity or fascination, I'm not quite sure, but he said this word, ' _interesting_ '? He said it the exact same way you do when you get surprised by something."

He doesn't answer, and she sighs.

"So what if I call him and ask for his help? He likes vulnerable people – and he loves it when people are grateful and owe him their lives. If I call him and – let's say I tell him he broke you. That you're still in near catatonic mode, going through the motions without reacting to the world. I'm alone in the world, wanted by law enforcement because I was with you, and you're nearly useless now so I need help, any help. He's narcissistic enough to take the bait.

\- He could. Perhaps. _Maybe_. But there's a flaw in your plan, Teresa," he says, faint anger in his words. "You don't have an inch of dishonesty in you, and you're a terrible liar. If you can't fool me, what makes you think you can fool Red John?!

\- Because I won't need to lie to him!"

She sighs angrily.

"Patrick, I was twelve when my mother died, fourteen when my father started beating the crap out of us, and just a month short of eighteen when he killed himself. How do you think we kept to ourselves? There were four of us! Four angry, desperate teenagers with suspicious bruises living in a nosy neighbourhood, at least three of them constantly acting up. How do you think we managed to keep living in our childhood home and never get the social services involved?"

She takes a deep breath, trying to push down the bubble of grief she always feel when she talks about her childhood.

"Sometimes, you can lie with the truth," she whispers, with a lump in her throat. "And you saw me do it already, don't you remember? With Dr. Carmen, five years ago? The trick is to feed on emotion you _really feel_. You know that."

He swallows hard, but keep silent. They drive without saying a word to each other for a while, until they find themselves trapped in the afternoon traffic near Sacramento.

"She would've loved you," he says suddenly, while they wait in line to cross Pioneer Memorial Bridge.

He doesn't look at her, instead staring right ahead.

"Annie," he adds, voice rough and choked. "She would've loved you. She hated the lifestyle, but most of the time, she enjoyed the tricks. And sometimes – sometimes I wish I met you earlier. You would've made an amazing shill."

His right hand leaves the wheel, search for hers – and when she meets him at mid-point, he squeezes hard. She feels as choked as he sounds when she realises it's the first time he ever said his wife's name aloud in front of her.

"Does that mean you agree with my plan?" she asks after a moment.

He sighs faintly.

"I really don't want to," he admits. "But – I don't have another plan. And –

\- And it could work," she says, finishing his sentence. "You know it could."

He nods.

"Alright. Well, then... where is Bertram's phone?

\- In my jacket. Inside pocket," he says, then glances at her with alarm. "No wait, don't – "

She was already leaning toward him – picking the phone in his pocket is a very quick affair. Then she realises something else came up with the phone.

She blinks.

He cringes horribly.

She blinks again when she realises he's _blushing_. Red as a tomato, just like a school boy with a crush on the teacher.

And he looks very much like a school boy right now.

Blinking a third time, she puts the foil square back in his pocket without a word – and bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing when she realises he won't meet her eyes.

"You know," she starts.

"I can explain," he winces – and once again she has to stop herself from laughing out loud.

"No, no, I – uhm, I mean, I always keep some of _those_ in my wallet, too. Just in case. My mother, she – well, one of the last conversations I had with her was – 'The Talk'. You know? God, it was embarrassing. My father was the strict catholic man, but she was a bit of a free child – and she used to be in the hippy movement when she was young, so she told me a lot more than I really wanted to know about – _things_. One of them was to make sure always to keep one of _those_ with me, even when I didn't think I would need it – because, and I quote: ' _If you start wondering if you'll need it, then it means you have to be prepared_ '. So I always did.

\- Sam told me pretty much the same thing," he says, still not looking at her. "When I was fifteen.

\- Women's wisdom, I guess," she grins, and playfully shoves his shoulder.

His smile is still a bit strained, but at least it's genuine. It disappears, however, when she starts fiddling with the phone.

The only contact in the list is aptly named 'Contact' – and the phone number is one linked to the Sacramento area, but is otherwise unfamiliar. She takes a deep breath, then with a glace to Patrick, she hits the dial.

" _Tyger Tyger_ ," says the voice on the line.

"My name is Teresa Lisbon, and I need help. I need to talk to Red John," she says, trying for a confidence she doesn't feel.

Silence.

"Tell him to call me back at this number," she adds, and hangs up. "Think that will do the trick?

\- Maybe," he says quietly. "We'll see if he calls back."

She nods.

Traffic finally clears, and they quickly find themselves downtown, driving past the CBI building without even a hint of hesitation. The familiar building give off a vibe of _oddness_ she has trouble understanding – as if they moved to an alternate world without realising it. But then she realises it isn't just the headquarters – it's everything. Everything just looks so _normal_. People walking in the street, sitting and laughing in coffee shops, jogging on the side of the road – all without a care in the world. The unreal feeling is nearly dream like – it becomes conspicuous enough that she has to pinch her arm to convince herself she isn't sleep-walking somehow.

It doesn't help that the clouds she saw in the morning sky didn't clear, shadowing the whole city, basking everything in an eerie green light.

They'll be in for one hell of a storm.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"I know a place," he answers. "Somewhere they won't ask questions."

The hotel they stop in front of is small and shabby – but, as she discovers when they get inside, at least it's clean. And these last days she learned not to be picky.

Without a word, they lock the door behind them, put down their weapons and remove their shoes. She puts the phone on the bedside table. Patrick sits on the bed, back against the wall – and when he invites her with a waving sign, she's happy to sit between his legs, back reclined against his chest. He crosses his arms around her and leans his cheek on the top of her head.

Then they wait.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Rain**_


	24. Rain

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Ah, yes – the NSFW chapter I really didn't want to write. x)  
It comes with a story, actually.  
Around when I was writing chapter 18 ("Red"), I suddenly realised I had no idea at all what was going to come next. So when I started struggling with parts of the chapters, I decided to take a short break to check over the remaining prompts, and then I saw those two weirdly way-too-general UFOs assigned to chapters 23 ("Frown") and 24 ("Gasping"). I stared for a bit, then admitting defeat, I poked the friend of mine with whom I'm doing this challenge, asking her if she'd agree to change those two prompts because otherwise I wouldn't be able to come up with anything. She said yes, picked up a pair of dices, and we started rolling for new prompts. "Velvet" came up first, so we replaced "Frown" with it, and then – "Rain". And right at that moment, and because just the day before Jane and Lisbon nearly kissed in Roddy Turner's trailer, I knew this one would have to be "That Chapter To Justify The Rating".  
So here it is, courtesy of Blake Neely and his amazing Mentalist soundtrack. Right now I just hope I managed to keep it tasteful, and that all those of you who were waiting for this for so long will enjoy it. Cheers, peeps!

 **Warning:** Definitively, irrevocably 18+ – and be careful where you read this one because, trust me, you really don't want your boss reading it over your shoulder. Or your mum.  
Also, a little bit of unsafe sex practices, and take note that I don't condone that at all, so please don't be an idiot like Jane and make sure to always, _always_ protect yourself. (Not that I think you won't, but you know, I'm covering my back.)

* * *

 **Chapter 24 - Rain**

When the phone rings, an hour later, they both jump.

"Not a sound," she says as she stretches her arm toward the shrill device, and he nods – he knows that already.

The way his throat is closing on itself would prevent him from speaking anyway.

"This is Lisbon," she says, and he pulls her back against him, arms tight around her stomach, eyes scrunched closed, forehead pressing against the warm skin between neck and shoulder.

" _Hello, Teresa_."

Mind in tatters, he struggles with keeping his breathing low and controlled and even under the relentless onslaught of anger and fear and _painpainpain_.

"Sheriff McAllister," she whispers.

The man chuckles. A cold shiver runs up and down his spine.

" _Please, call me Tom. Sheriff McAllister is dead._

\- Tom, then," she says, and her voice is stronger now, but barely.

" _What can I do for you, my dear? Didn't expect to hear from you at all._ "

The man's voice is oozing charm and light flirt and self-confidence – and horror clouds his mind further when he realises how very similar to his own it sounds. Not so much in pitch, but in inflexions, in intents, in hidden secrets contained.

"I – I need help," she says faintly, choking a little – and this is _good_ , this is the crushed pride and vulnerability they need, but there is no objective bone in his body right now.

He holds her tighter.

" _What kind of help?_ "

 _Of course_ he'll prompt them further, make them work for it.

"I – I need – I," she says, then her voice breaks. "This was an awful idea," she starts again, shoulders shaking.

" _No, no, go on. You went through so much trouble to talk to me. I'm listening._

\- I have no one to turn to!" she nearly screams, breaking down in tears, and – _what?_

He knows this is a con, but those are real emotions spilling everywhere, real emotions she feeds on – and the despair, the sheer exhaustion he hears in her voice shakes him to the core. He knew this was hard on her, but not on _this_ level – and _how in the world is she still able to go on?!_

" _What about Patrick?_ " the man asks in a very neutral voice – and clearly he doesn't believe her yet, but still cannot find anything that rings untrue in her words.

"You _broke_ him," she says, still crying. "He stopped talking when he saw those pictures. I had to _carry him_ out of that house in Santa Monica, he just wouldn't – _wouldn't move_."

She takes a shuddering breath, and he silently kisses her neck, trailing his lips on every patch of skin he can reach, assuring her without a word that _he's here, he's there, he's not going anywhere_.

"Look, I know the Association is still strong, you still have contacts, you – I have nowhere else to go. No job, no _future_ left. And I really – _really_ don't want to, but – you're the only one who can still help me out of this mess, so – please. I'm _begging_ you."

The man is hooked, some part of his brain knows – that broken blend of desperation and self-loathing would prove irresistible to someone like him.

" _I don't give my help for free_ ," he says after a few seconds of silence.

"I know.

\- _What will you give me in return?_ "

A wave of nausea washes over his body. They didn't plan this. How could they forget to plan this? His fingers dig into her sides before he can stop himself. She puts one hand over his – to anchor herself or soothe him, he doesn't know which.

"Anything," she answers, choked up.

" _Even if I asked you to give up Patrick to me?_ "

The voice is amused, revelling in the control he feels he has over the situation. He cannot breathe anymore.

"He's – the state he's in now, he – that – that would be a waste," she stutters, and the man laughs darkly.

" _But if I asked you to bring him to me, would you?_

\- Yes," she whispers, a broken fragile thing in which there is no sign of deception, no lie.

And of course there isn't – he'll need to be beside her when they do this. The easiest way would be for her to bring him along.

" _Good answer. Where are you?_

\- In Sacramento.

\- _Very well. Meet me tomorrow morning in Alexandria Cemetery. Ten o'clock. Alone and unarmed_."

 _What?_

"Alone?" she repeats, puzzled. "But I thought you – Patrick –

\- _Patrick didn't ask for my help_ ," comes the amused answer. " _Alone, or I'll shoot you both before you see me coming_."

 _No no no no no!_

"Al – Alright. But – I don't feel safe travelling without a gun. There's a warrant for my arrest – I need to defend myself. Can I –

\- _Of course, and you will give me your weapon as soon as we meet, without prompting_ ," he interrupts.

She swallows hard, unable to answer right away.

" _If we make that deal, Teresa, you become mine_ ," the man reminds her. " _There is no going back on this. Are you ready to give yourself to me?_

\- Yes. Alright. Anything," she says quietly, and he bites down on her shoulder, hard.

 _Mine!_

She flinches, her fingers digging into his thigh. He doesn't care – his thinking process has been shut down, replaced with fear and dread and protectiveness and _mineminemine-not-his-mine_.

" _Alexandria Cemetery, ten o'clock. I'll find you_."

She flips the phone closed, removes the battery and flings it in a corner of the room. Her shaking hand climbs up to his curls, burying itself into his hair, clinging tightly enough to hurt.

A violent flash of lightning swiftly brightens the room – and as thunder cracks and rumbles away, the lights inside flicker and die.

His breathing in the sudden silence echoes harsh and heavy against the walls.

Squeezing pain flares in his chest – the pain of heartbreak, of seeing a loved one slipping away, something intimate and unbearable and achingly familiar. And while some part of his brain know he's over-reacting, that she's still here, unharmed and in his arms and under his mouth, he doesn't know how to _just let go_.

So he doesn't.

Instead slowly releases the grip of his teeth on her skin, licking her shoulder, her neck as an apology, peppering the area with small desperate kisses. The hand in his hair releases him as well, but slides lower and grips the back of his neck instead. Hanging there, nails scratching the skin lightly – then she lets go of him and turns around in his arms, straddles his legs and presses her forehead against his.

For a few moments they stay unmoving, blind in the darkened room – arms holding each other hopelessly tight, breathing hard, sharing the same air.

Until he cannot bear it anymore.

Slipping his fingers behind her ears, he pulls her closer. For a time, kissing her seems to do the trick, licking and sucking and nibbling on lips and tongue sating the deep burning inside him – but soon enough it stokes the fire to blaze, then inferno, and he needs _more_.

He needs _her_.

In a flurry of hands he unfastens her blouse, slips it over her shoulders as she opens his vest and shirt. Picking up the square of foil in his inside pocket, he slams it on the bedside table before letting his own clothes fall off, three layers all at the same time. She brushes them off the bed and, standing upright on her knees, kisses him again – one hand stroking the back of his neck, the other keeping her balance on his shoulder. He slides his own on her back, holding her close against him, and caresses everything from her shoulder blades to her still trouser-clad rear.

When she pushes herself against his hands, asking for more, he moves them smoothly to her hips, climbing up her ribs until he meets fabric, then circles to the back again and unclasps her bra. He breaks the kiss then, trailing his lips and tongue down the soft planes of skin as her hands slip lower to loosen his belt – and when her wandering fingers brush against him, he gasps loudly, the feeling hitting him with an intensity he didn't expect.

 _MINE!_

She lets out a startled yelp when he flips her over on the bed, but then she laughs and it's like warm water trickling down his back. He grins briefly against the side of her neck, one hand slipping in hers, twinning their fingers together over her head – and she hangs on tight, as tight as he does, as tight as possible. Connected. United.

Until he feels the burning urge to touch her again and, nudging her legs apart, lowers himself over her.

Propping himself on elbows and knees, he peppers small kisses down the middle of her chest, revelling in the way her breathing quickens, her back arches up to meet him, her hands clench and unclench on his shoulder. The small breathless moan she gives when he pushes his tongue in her navel sends shivers of want deep in his groin.

Thunder claps again outside, and a new flash of lightning allows him to see her briefly in black and white, all startled eyes and parted lips and taunt muscles everywhere. Setting himself back on his knees, he briefly skims her body from shoulders to hips with the tips of his fingers, brushing against hardened nipples barely half a second – grinning when she groans – until his hands reach the top of her trousers and undo the button, slide down the zipper, pull down on the fabric – trying to remove all of it. She immediately helps, lifting herself on her elbows, then raising her legs over his head – as eager and impatient as he is.

When he lowers his body back on hers, the heat of her core pressed against him, even through layers of clothing, makes his fingers twitch as he struggles to control himself. His mouth latches on that spot he bit earlier, gently sucking this time as he takes several deep breaths through the nose to calm down – but she won't have any of it, and her nimble fingers impatiently pull on the clip of his slacks. When she tries to remove his clothes with her feet, making annoyed noises in his ears, he wheezes a laugh in her neck and pulls back, kicking off his last layers.

 _MINE MINE MINE!_

This time, when he comes back to her, he doesn't pull back. Using tongue and lips and teeth, he licks the salt off her skin, teasing her breasts one after the other, kissing the soft underside where heat pools warm and soothing, gently sucking and biting on her nipples. Then, when her breathing becomes erratic and her hands tangled in his hair, he kisses his way down to her core, lowering his stomach on the mattress and holding tight on her hips.

He starts with a long, slow, thorough lick from bottom to top, enjoying the way she shivers, and gasps, and tries to buckle against him. But he's setting the pace now, he needs to do this, needs to share himself the only way he has left when all words are gone and all thoughts are quiet – and he wouldn't usually do this without some sort of protection, but the need to drown his mind in her scents and tastes and touches is so strong it overrides everything. So he strokes softly the tip of her core, tastes deep inside her the smooth slick walls and rough bumpy ceiling, sucks lightly on supple skin – drinking both the tang and sweet of her body and the sounds she make, relentlessly, until suddenly her legs fall open on each side of him and she sighs and he feels the vibrations of pleasure on his tongue.

 _Mine._

He takes a few seconds to get back his breath, head leaning against the warmth of her thigh – and he hears her hand fumbling somewhere on the bedside table, but only pays attention when she tugs lightly on his hair and hums in a way that sends sharp desire deep through his guts. She pulls him up to her, lithe hands stroking his stomach, until she reaches for him and he hisses because even this light touch is nearly too much to his overly sensitive body. But then she presses a small rubbery disk against him and falls back on the bed, and he falls back against her, lips seeking the crook of her neck.

The heat alone of her core surrounding him is nearly enough to undo him – only with careful breathing, nails sinking into his palms and _no movement at all_ can he stop himself from spontaneously combust right there and then. She seems to understand his struggle and stays motionless, hand slowly stroking his back, until he gives a first tentative push and her fingers tighten on his nape. Pleasure still rises quickly with each back and forth, too quickly, until all of his muscles clench tightly and he enjoys a second of perfect clarity –

 _I love you._

– before dissolving in a great hacking sob.

Rain falls lightly against the window.

A long moment passes before he stops feeling like a quivering mess, before he gets enough strength back in his limbs to pull back and roll to the side, still out of breath. She stays silent, but pulls back his head against her shoulder – and he closes his eyes and sighs in relief, one finger stroking softly the underside of her breast.

And suddenly electricity is back again, and both of them blink owlishly in returned light.

When his sight returns, the first thing meeting him are her eyes, soft and shining and full of warmth. He props himself on an elbow and winces when he realises the damage he did to her shoulder earlier – lightly touches the bruise as a wordless apology, and she laughs gently at him, half in jest, half in delight, before sitting up, kissing his temple and walking to the bathroom.

He falls back against the bed, arms over his head, still a bit dazed.

Surprised and shameful to realise he feels no guilt at all.

The light glints against his wedding ring, and he spends a long moment staring at it, mind blank. Touches it tentatively with finger and thumb, letting go almost immediately – touching it a second time.

Slowly pulls it off – starts putting it back on, then stops.

Pulls it back off.

When she comes back from the bathroom, she doesn't say a word. She immediately sees the golden ring sitting conspicuously on the bedside table, of course, right where he slammed the condom earlier – but when she sits beside him, other than a soft stroking of his cheek, she offers no other reaction. And he's grateful – because some things cannot be expressed in words. Some things cannot be expressed at all, and this is one of them.

They both know the significance of him removing that ring while Red John is still alive anyway.

Instead she kisses him, and he kisses back, so desperately it hurts – and soon they find themselves right back where they started, shivering and out of breath and aching for each other.

This time she straddles and rides him, one hand supporting herself on his thigh, the other entwined with his – her right, his left – slowly waving up and down and back and forth, shining eyes never leaving his. And he gazes up at her as she sets the pace, taking in the soft ringlets of her hair falling down her back, the light skin covered in freckles, the blush set high on her cheekbones, the lips bruised impossibly red – and _his mark_ , nearly purple now, right in the crook between neck and shoulder.

And she's gorgeous.

And he loves her. So, so much.

And pleasure is surging fast again, so he raises his thumb to her lips, which she sucks on readily, twirling her tongue around it – and when his digit is wet and slick he presses it between her thick dark curls, letting her rub herself against him as she moves, his other hand clamping on her fingers hard and tight and _together_. She comes first, head falling back and breathing hard, clenching around him so quick and hot he follows almost immediately with a sharp intake of breath.

They sleep in each other's arms, as usual curling around each other like small animals looking for comfort.

Rain outside is still falling.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: War**_


	25. War

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** First chapter of the two-parts finale, and last Lisbon PoV! Are you ready for it?  
To be honest, I'm not – I spent parts of the evening bawling my eyes out at the thought of what I was going to have to write, and when I finally calmed down, Red John decided to be even more horrible than I originally thought he could be. So please, read the warnings carefully, and don't hurt me? This chapter was excruciating to write and I'm hurting enough already.

 **Warning:** As per the rule, no good fluff goes unpunished. This one is heavy on torture descriptions, both emotional and physical, and pretty much all the chapter is made of shootings/threatening with guns. If you're familiar with TV tropes, "Break the Cutie" is pretty much it. There's also a canon character death, a small graphic mention of unsafe sex, religious talk and some dissociation descriptions. If anything in that list triggers you, please stay safe. (And if you need comfort after reading this, go back to the last one.)

* * *

 **Chapter 25 - War**

The air is fresh and clean after yesterday's thunderstorm. Water drops clinging to grass blades wet the rim of her trousers as she walks between tombstones, slowly making her way along the alleys. The flowers she holds in her hand are sweet-smelling and colourful, especially vivid when morning light shines on them.

Blue and yellow. She deliberately avoided red.

When she finds the graves she was looking for, she stops – unmoving for a while, as she calmly considers the stark letters on otherwise blank stone. Then she lays down the bouquet between them and joins her hands in front of her.

"Hi," she whispers.

A small breeze shakes the leaves in the tree nearby, and she smiles sadly.

"I'm pretty sure you know me already. You must have spent a lot of time around Patrick in the last ten years. I mean – that's what I would do, if I was..."

She takes a deep breath, releases it.

"So you know what we're going to do today. You know how dangerous it is. It's a big gambit. And I came here hoping to ask you – ask you to take care of him. Make sure he's safe and sound at the end of the day."

She watches for a moment the patches of sunlight dancing on Charlotte's tombstone.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to meet you when you were alive. You must have been incredible people if Patrick loved you so much."

She swallows hard.

"And I'm sorry he had to lose you so that I could meet him. But I'm not sorry we met. I love him."

The wind shakes the leaves again, plays with her hair.

"I know you did too, so I'm begging you. Keep him safe. Keep him sound. Please make sure nothing bad happens to him today, or any day after – I don't want to lose him."

She closes her eyes, crosses herself – and when a car drives past, below in the nearby street, she knows it's time to go.

"Thank you," she says quietly, turning away.

Circling around the graves, she walks fast toward the Western entrance, glancing around cautiously on her way. But at this hour, most people are away – holding normal working hours, doing normal things. For a second she can't remember what day of the week it is, and she stops in the middle of an alley, frowning deeply – counting on her fingers.

The day of the meeting was a Thursday, she recalls. Friday they were attacked at the hospital and went into hiding – then the next day she met with Ray in the evening, and after the night shooting they drove all the way to Vegas. Then on Sunday they overslept, and dyed their hair – and she smiles, thinking back on the moment she shared with Patrick. She should've just kissed him then and there.

On Monday, Cordero's shack – and her mind skirts away from what they found there. Then they drove to Carson Springs, and on Tuesday they were attacked again, after which they went to Santa Monica, and thank God for Cho and the team. On Wednesday they escaped police custody and drove to J.J.'s, and the day after _that_ –

 _The day after that was yesterday, which means today is Friday again._

Frowning still, she slows her pace, reaches a small stone bench facing the Western Gate's chapel and sits, deep in thoughts.

 _What do normal people do on a Friday morning?_

They go to work, she realises. They have lunch with co-workers, they waste some parts of the afternoon yelling at their consultant, and in the evening, they spend quality time with friends. Or they stay at home and watch a movie. And eat ice cream from the box.

 _Normal things._

The surreal feeling she got when they came back to Sacramento the day before still isn't gone yet. Yesterday evening's colours were too muted, but today they are too bright and if she lets her mind wander too much, she gets a floating sensation in her stomach – as if she was trying to keep her balance on the edge of a high wall, just like she did for fun when she was a kid.

It's not fun anymore.

Then suddenly there's a cold, hard pressure on her neck and a faint metallic click in her ear, and she closes her eyes.

"Hello, Teresa," says the man behind her.

She swallows, slowly reaches for her gun and pulls it from its holster, then removes the magazine from the handle and raises her arms in the air.

"Hello, Tom," she answers quietly.

" _Very_ good, my dear," he says, and she can hear the arrogant smile in his voice. "Oscar?"

A young man comes from her left and picks up the parts of her firearm, an unpleasant expression on his face. Then he makes her get up and frisks her – but she wouldn't be stupid enough to keep another weapon on her when she knows it would get her killed without process. He looks disappointed.

"I'm surprised you followed my instructions so well," says McAllister, sounding faintly puzzled.

"I don't want to die," she answers, staring right ahead.

He chuckles, and she shivers, just a bit.

 _Let him see everything_ , said Patrick earlier. _Draw deep on the emotions inside you, and don't try to show bravado. He needs to see you vulnerable, at his mercy. He needs to feel in control_.

So she does, and lets him see the faint disgust and very real fear she feels, and the self-loathing she draws from having fallen so far from her morals and life path – even as she knows there wasn't any other choice.

"Come, now," he says, smug and pleased and darkly amused. "Let's move out of the public's eyes."

He gives a small push in her back and she walks ahead, following his young bodyguard across the alley, past the statues and gardens to the modest chapel with white stucco walls. Once inside, she walks to the stoup without stopping, dips two fingers and crosses herself.

"Interesting," says McAllister right behind her, holding his gun to her neck.

"What is?" she asks, trying to remain calm.

But he pays her no mind.

"Oscar, go make sure the place is safe. Have anyone inside leave – and if you find Patrick Jane, shoot him.

\- Kill or maim?

\- Maim, if possible. If he struggles, kill."

She watches the man leave, trying to avoid thinking of Patrick's fate if they find him, wincing when he slams open and close the doors of the confession booths.

"You have faith," McAllister says, suddenly at her side – and making her jump. "You believe in God."

She nearly forgot he was here, and that was _stupid_ , especially as he's still pressing steel behind her ear – and _how_ could that _even happen?_ She needs to keep focus on him and stop worrying about things she has no control over, otherwise they could lose everything.

 _Give him everything he wants_ , said Patrick earlier. _If I can't stop you from doing this, you have to be ruthless. You have to be strong. If he asks you to kill me, then do it. No hesitation. I failed that test, Teresa, because I couldn't kill you_ _– but you can't fail it. Not now, not if we want this over and done._

"I was raised Catholic," she says, taking a shuddering breath.

"I haven't met many people able to keep faith in such circumstances," he says, voice neutral – and faint panic settles in her stomach because she doesn't know how to read him.

Then he grins, and she blinks. The expression is boyish and joyful, with little crinkles at the corner of his slanted eyes – and horror creeps up her spine when she realises she recognises that smile.

She's seen it on so many walls.

"Clear!" says the bodyguard, and the grin widens further.

"Have you met my good friend Oscar Cordero?" he asks. "I do believe you're familiar with his handiwork. He had an interesting encounter with a friend of yours recently, what was his name again?"

And she cringes, all of her muscles rebelling at the same time because she didn't _know_ , she didn't _realise_ , and now he wants her to –

 _She hasn't said his name aloud since they found him in that shack._

"Ray – Raymond Haffner," she says, forcing herself to push the syllables out of her mouth one by one – because she has to, she has to give him what he wants for this to work, and this is a small price to pay, considering.

He looks pleased.

"Ah, yes... _Ray_. Very loyal fellow. A little bit in love with you, I suspect. Oscar, how many toes before he gave them up?

\- Seven," says Cordero, smiling. "That was after the face burns, too – very resistant, that one. It took a _good_... _long_... _time_."

She closes her eyes, struggling against the nausea, against the pain, tears streaming down her cheeks – and still, showing him how hurt she feels, letting all her emotions play across her face.

 _She can do this. She has to._

"Thank you, Oscar. Now, please go outside, make sure we are left in peace."

She only opens her eyes when the wooden door slams hard, a loud sound echoing in the room. McAllister is still near her, too near really, and watching her with an expression half of delight, half of intense puzzlement. He pushes her gently toward the altar, steering her with gun on her neck and hand on the small of her back – the touch of fingers fleeting and familiar and _un_ familiar at the same time, until she remembers Patrick does that _all the time_.

Nausea comes back with a vengeance.

"So... no Patrick Jane, huh," says the man. "Must admit I'm having a bit of trouble reading your game today, my dear."

 _Be careful with your tone pitch_ , said Patrick earlier. _Say the naked truth whenever you can, and if not, word it in a way to justify it inside – and try to keep your voice even and low as much as possible. If he can read people half as well as I do, he'll hear your high voice tell as loud and clear as Rigsby's stomach on a hunger strike. You need to keep that in check._

\- There is no game," she says – because _games aren't supposed to be cruel_. "You told me to come alone, and that's what I did. Why are we here?

\- You'll have to be a little more precise with that question," he says, amused.

"I mean – why are we _here_ , at Alexandria Cemetery? There's no point if Patrick isn't here too, isn't it?

\- _Au contraire_ ," he chuckles. "It's a very fitting place – never mind the fact I never really expected you to come _alone_ , what better place for you to shed your old life than a graveyard?"

And they finally, finally come to the crux of the matter.

"What do I have to do?" she asks, raising enlarged eyes at him, hoping to appear eager rather than frightened.

"Kill Oscar," he smiles, as benign and placid as if he told her to water the garden.

And while the demand doesn't really come as a surprise, she feels stricken nonetheless. Jumbled thoughts of divine punishment and selling her soul to the devil run through her mind, and suddenly she realises – this isn't just a nightmare. This must be Hell. There is no other way. God couldn't be so cruel as to let this happen to her.

"Ah... there it is," he whispers, suddenly way too close and lifting her chin upward. "The first signs of lost faith. Welcome to the world, my dear."

And the worst isn't his words, or the fact that they ring true somehow, or the fact that the vulnerability she feels right now isn't drawn on previous experiences. No, the worst is, up this close she can _smell_ him, and his scent isn't blood or gunpowder or burnt dead things, it's –

– tea.

He smells like tea.

And tea makes her think of Patrick, and the taste of his mouth, and her lips on the underside of his shaft as he spills all over her tongue in the early morning light, and humiliation isn't strong enough a word to describe the wave of burning self-hatred drowning her as she tries, and fails, to keep the flash of _want_ off her face.

He stops.

Blinks.

Looks deeply startled for a second, before his eyes darken so quickly she thinks of sink holes.

 _There is one in Napa_ , she remembers, _called the Devil's Well – and what a fitting name that is._

"What an interesting little thing you are," he whispers, before releasing her and taking a step back – and the sigh of relief she can't hold inside makes him chuckle.

She swallows hard, face heated in shame, and looks down as he makes her turn toward the main entrance with hands and gun again.

"Oscar," he calls.

And suddenly he's surrounding her, firearm on her pulse and lips on her ear, and his other hand is putting a small handgun in hers and holding them upright, far from them both, and she feels his whispers bypassing her brain and flowing right into her soul.

"You are going to shoot him," he breathes into her ear, "because your friend Ray spent _seven hours of agony_ under his watch. At the very beginning he _burned_ his cheek off until the room smelled like _barbecue_ , then cut off one _toe_ at the top of the hour, each time he still refused to talk. In between the toes, he spent time _slicing_ the skin off his chest, slowly and _painfully_ , with a very sharp knife. Oscar did this to Ray – aren't you feeling _hatred_ now? Desire for _revenge?_ Here he comes. _Look up_ , Teresa and shoot – _now_ , or I'll shoot you myself. _Now!_ "

And she closes her eyes, feeds on her hatred of _him_ , and shoots three times – and weeps as Cordero's body falls on the ground near the main doors.

 _Make this stop now. Please. Patrick. Make this stop._

" _Very_ good," says McAllister, taking back the handgun and releasing her.

And for the first time since she came in here she can breathe freely, because the weapon he held under her neck stops touching her skin. He's still trailing it on her, of course, but he isn't so close anymore – and this is what they were waiting for. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to steel herself, because now is not the time to fall. If she can just get a few more steps between them...

 _Any moment now._

"Why make me do _that?_ " she asks, voice faint with horror and grief. "He was your friend!

\- He was a tool," says McAllister coldly. "A very valuable tool for a very long time, but his usefulness ran out when you found a body in his property. He's been on the run nearly as long as you now."

She takes a step back – and another, startled, when he raises his arm and points his weapon more firmly on her.

"Well, this was fun," he says with a chuckle. "I'm starting to see what Patrick likes so much about you. Wish we could play more, spend a little _quality time_ together... but unfortunately, _time_ is running out."

 _What?_

"But – I thought – I did _everything_ – "

He laughs – a genuine thing that twists her stomach in knots.

"Did you _honestly_ think I would help you out of a situation I created myself?" he says, grinning boyishly again. " _I_ was hoping you'd bring _Patrick_ along with you – but you didn't, and that's a real shame. Maybe I truly broke him with those pictures of his little girl... Somehow I doubt that. But I bet finding _you_ here will do the trick."

His grin widens again, takes a manic expression, and there's still less than ten feet between his gun and her body, and she raises her eyes to the top of the confession booths, pleading.

 _Shoot now. I don't care if he hits me. Just shoot now!_

"Goodbye, Teresa," says McAllister, and there's a faint click and a sharp _tzing_ – and suddenly he's howling in pain and firing his weapon once, twice, and howling in pain again before falling on the ground.

And she's frozen on the spot, but Patrick isn't, and he climbs down his hiding space while McAllister crawl-runs on three limbs, trying to escape with a hole in his stomach and another in his knee. He disappears through the service door – and Patrick runs _to her_ instead of _after him_.

"What are you doing?!" she yells. "Get him before he escapes! _GO!_ "

His face twists in agony but he obeys, and soon enough silence falls back on the small chapel – and she's left slowly falling on the ground, staring bewildered at the blood seeping through her clothes.

* * *

 _ **Tomorrow's prompt: Silence**_


	26. Silence

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** Second part of the two-chapters finale! There's only an epilogue left after this one. Whew!  
This was hard to write too, but not for the same reasons. Some of the scenes in this chapter I've had in mind since the very beginning of this adventure, so trying to get them right (and mostly failing, and accepting that failure) was a hard process. Then of course there's the actual content, and while it may not have the same shock value as the last one in sheer graphic descriptions... well. Let's just say, those dark places Lisbon draw upon in the last chapters? I'm getting to be _very_ familiar with mine.

 **Warning:** Canon character deaths (more than one), shootings and waving guns again, lots of anguish and – I'm sorry, I really am.

* * *

 **Chapter 26 - Silence**

He trips over his feet in his haste to get out of the chapel. Crashing against the pedestal of the statue in the courtyard, he pulls himself up again, pushing away the pain in his shoulder and any thought of the state Teresa must be in.

Ruthless and strong. That's what he told her to be.

That's what he needs to be now.

 _"I can't let you do this," he says to her when they wake up at dawn. "We have to find something else, make another plan. We could use his weaknesses against him._

 _\- What weaknesses?_

 _\- I don't know. Birds," he blurts out. "He's afraid of birds. We could lure him somewhere and_ _– and I could –_

 _\- What, hide a pigeon in your pocket?" she laughs, sprawled on top of him, gently tugging on the small hairs of his chest. "Come on. There's no way he'd miss that. We'd be gunned down in seconds. No. This plan is risky, but at least we have a chance."_

 _He scrunches his eyes hard, one hand crumpling the sheets in a tight grip._

 _"What if he hurts you? What if_ _he – kills you?_

 _\- We have to end this, one way or another," she answers, sliding on the side and propping herself on an elbow. "I'm scared, too. But stopping him is – greater, more important than our own lives. You know that._

 _\- I'm ready to give my life for this. I've always been. But not yours! If I lose you – " and suddenly he cannot speak anymore because his throat is closing on itself and his lungs are screaming for air._

He loses a few seconds trying to figure out which direction to run in. On his left, the street – mostly empty, but even with holes in his body, a man can pick the lock of a car. On his right, Alexandria Cemetery – open spaces, but with many trees and tombstones to hide behind.

Where is he?

He can't have gone far yet. Not with only one leg.

Then he spies a large shadow frantically crawling between two graves.

There!

He starts running again.

 _"To protect and to serve," she says later, after holding him, after taking the edge off his fears by means of tongue and fingers and bright shining eyes. "That is the vow I took when I got into the forces. It's who I am. Patrick, look at me."_

 _He does – features still twisted, half throes of pleasure, half contorts of agony._

 _"I need to think of this as – as the only way left to protect all those people he'll kill if we don't stop him. Do you understand? If I can't have a hand in stopping him, I won't be able to live with myself. I won't be able to live at all._

 _\- At least you would be unharmed!" he says, a thumb reaching under her eye to touch the deep dark circles marring her skin. "We don't even know what he's planning for you._

 _\- Then help me! We have three hours left before we need to leave. Teach me how you would do it. Teach me how to survive this."_

When McAllister sees him coming, he actually tries to stand up and run.

He fails, of course – his injured knee buckles under him and he falls right back on the ground, howling in pain. But he keeps going – crawl-runs on his hands and undamaged leg, barely looking anywhere in his frenzied need to flee.

The pace he's going at is impressive.

Just not quite quick enough.

 _"You hypocrite!" she laughs with disbelief. "I'll never be able to kill you, especially not for McAllister's twisted pleasure. How can you even ask me to do that?"_

 _Her kiss is fierce and protective and possessive all at the same time, and when they come up for breath, he feels a little dizzy._

 _"No. You wouldn't do it either," she adds, and he sighs in her neck because of course she's right. "I can find in myself to do a lot of things, but that is where I draw the line._

 _\- That's not what I'm most afraid of," he admits, breathing in the faint cinnamon scent of her skin. "What if we're wrong? What if he never lowers his guard enough to point his weapon away from you?"_

 _She lets out a small shuddering breath – one that confirms that eventuality scares her almost as much as it does him._

 _"If he decides he wants to kill me, he won't do it from up close when I could fight back," she says quietly. "He'll want to be at least ten feet away, just out of range. He has good aim, but if you injure him, his hands won't be as sure and he could miss. It's a long shot, but – even if I'm hit, a shot fired from ten feet away is less likely to kill me than a shot fired point blank."_

 _She looks up and holds his gaze_

 _"If that happens, you can't back out. You have to take a chance and shoot."_

Their chase finally comes to a stop when McAllister realises he has nowhere to go. Fifteen feet away, a gate runs for miles on the edge of the graveyard – and when the tries to change course and turns to the side, he's more than happy to fire at him, effectively preventing his escape.

He feels rage.

But it's not the burning, bitter, painful anger eating him from the inside he expected to feel when meeting face to face with his family's killer.

It's the cold, detached, seething creature that settles deep into his guts, numbs all other emotions and clears his mind.

McAllister knows it – sees it etched on his features.

And is terrified.

"Please," he begs faintly, still trying to crawl away on his back, rolling fearful eyes at him. "Don't kill me. You don't want to do this. You're not like me. Please let me live."

The man's head hits a tombstone and he presses himself against it, as in a pathetic attempt to blend in with the rock. His shaking hands rummage in his pockets, take out a phone and try to signal 911 – but he finds himself stopped by a shoe kicking his injured knee and then crushing his chest, preventing further retreat.

The phone falls on the grass – and he picks it up, making sure to close it before slipping it in his jacket.

"You know, I thought I would enjoy this," he whispers, gun firmly pointed on his forehead. "All those years, I've fantasised about finding you. Taking my time. Cutting you open like you did with my wife _Angela_ , my daughter _Charlotte_."

McAllister is wheezing, trying to make out words, but he slowly presses further against his lungs – and only stops when breathing becomes nearly impossible.

"All those years, I've been chasing you as if you were some sort of terrible monster crawling out of a children's closet at night."

He swallows hard.

"But the truth is, you're just a rabid dog that needs to be put down."

He lowers himself on one knee, pushes down the gun between his eyes.

"And I'm done losing my time with you."

And shoots.

A powerful surge of unidentified emotion overwhelms him for a second – _grief and joy and relief and pain and disbelief and_ – but only a second, because then he remembers Teresa, and her startled stare, and the blood seeping through her clothes, and _he needs to go_.

He runs.

Back through the graveyard alleys, slipping on wet grass, trying his best to keep his physical balance – all the while shaking inside like in the middle of an earthquake. He didn't realise how far McAllister crawled earlier – but now that he races against time, against death, against bleeding out on the floor of a church, the distance seems to multiply several times over.

He finally reaches the street, runs through the courtyard, passes the statue and the gardens, and barges in through the service door.

Someone is standing upright in the middle of the aisle.

For a second he freezes, because –

 _Teresa?_

– the woman's long dark hair confuses him, but then he remembers, hers are auburn now, and he sees the blade she's holding, and the way she's raising it in the air, ready to strike, and –

 _Teresa!_

– he points his gun at her and shoots, shoots again and again, until the gun clicks empty and the woman collapses over on the ground and the blade arches high in the air, then falls back down and hits the floor with a metallic clunk. His gun follows suit.

Then he starts running again, and only stops when he sees her, half-sprawled against the wooden benches, eyes enlarged in fear and confusion and hands pressing against her stomach, trying to staunch the blood flow.

"Hey," he says, voice broken with worry and anguish, falling on his knees beside her.

He removes his jacket and bunches it against her wounds, then remembers the phone he picked up earlier.

" _911\. What's your emergency?_

\- I'm at the Western Gates chapel in Alexandria Cemetery, Sacramento, I need immediate EMT assistance for a woman with several gunshot wounds to the chest," he croaks before hanging up.

He raises trembling hands to her face, brushing stray hair away from her eyes – taking in her ashen complexion and clammy skin, and feeling a pit of dread settle in his stomach.

"You're going to be okay, you're going to be fine," he says, feeling very cold.

"Yeah," she answers softly. "Hold me?

\- I shouldn't move you," he cringes.

"Hold me," she asks again, raising stark widened eyes to his, and _of course_ he won't deny her twice.

He settles against the dark hard wood and pulls her close against him, pressing down the fabric of his jacket against her – and wincing when she hisses, but still keeping the same amount of pressure because doing otherwise would just be foolish. She's shivering from cold, curling up against him to soak as much warmth and contact he can offer, and her sigh of comfort tickles against his neck.

But when her head sags against his shoulder and he realises she closed her eyes, he starts panicking a little inside.

"Hey, hey, don't sleep," he says urgently, and only feels relief when she opens her eyes again. "Talk to me. Say something, anything.

\- Did you get him?" she asks, and he nods, kissing her temple.

"Yes. It's over. It's done.

\- Good."

She swallows.

"You should go.

\- What? Why?" he asks, completely confused.

"They'll want to arrest you," she mutters. "You should escape before they find us.

"Keep your eyes opened. And I don't care. I promised I would stay, remember?

\- I don't want you to go to prison."

He chuckles – a little desperate.

"What do you say we escape, huh?

\- Escape?

\- Yeah. We'll have you checked out at the hospital first, then we – we do what we did that day to confuse the officers at the airport, alright?

\- That was fun.

\- Yes, yes it was, so – let's do that again, and then we can – we can escape from the US and go live in – somewhere on the beach. Would you like that?

\- Beach sounds nice. Warm.

\- Always warm, with the sun and the sand and the ocean, and just – just don't close your eyes, okay? That's it, look at me. Look at me.

\- I love you," she whispers, and he tightens his arms around her, hiding his tears against her hair for a moment until he can keep them in check.

"I love you too," he says, and she closed her eyes again but she's smiling, _so that's okay, right?_

"That – that's lucky," she chuckles, and he follows suit, just a little choked, because _really_ , that's something he would have said himself in other circumstances, and it means she spent way too much time around him if she can channel his kind of humour so easily in such a situation.

Not that she could _ever_ spend too much time around him.

"I'm glad," she says again. "Talk to me. The beach?

"Okay," he breathes, and kisses her temple again. "Okay. It'll be a small island in Venezuela, because that way we won't be bothered by the FBI, alright? It'll be warm and sunny all the time, except in rainy seasons of course, and we'll spend all our time on the beach soaking up the sun and relaxing.

\- Sounds good.

\- We'll collect shells and pretty rocks, and in summer we'll swim with dolphins, and in winter we'll get up at night to see matings of jellyfish, and when we need something to do we'll find a town and – and offer our services to local PD as consultants, and if there's not enough crime I'll create trouble for you to yell at me so you won't be bored.

\- Paperwork," she groans quietly, and her nose scrunches, and he laughs desperate and anguished and pained.

"Look at me Teresa, look at me, that's it. Listen to what I say, okay? Don't sleep.

\- Mhm. Island?

\- Yes, the island. We'll – we'll find ourselves a little quiet place with just the bare minimum, because we'll always be outside, but we'll make sure to get a very good bed so we won't get back pains. And it'll be hot, so you'll wear sun dresses, and – and I'll wear sarongs to make you laugh.

\- Sarongs?

\- And shirts. Island shirts.

\- No vest?

\- No vest.

\- Like vests.

\- You do?

\- Mhm.

\- Alright then, I'll – wear the vests over the island shirts?

\- Mhm," she breathes, and her head sags against him again.

And finally, finally, he can hear sirens in the distance, and he tightens his grip on her further – but she doesn't react, and her breathing is shallow, and he doesn't remember when she stopped shivering but she's still so _cold_.

"Hey," he says. "Hey. Hey! Look at me. Teresa, look at me, look at me."

He kisses her forehead once, twice, and his harsh breathing echoes loudly in the quiet church.

"Don't sleep, alright? Just – don't sleep, answer me? And I'll talk about our island again?"

Silence.

"No no no, don't sleep, just – open your eyes, please, _please_ don't sleep. They're coming, alright? They'll take care of you, _just stay awake_ , answer me!"

Silence.

" _No_ , Teresa, _please_ , don't – please _don't do this to me,_ _please!_ "

Silence, silence, silence.

* * *

 ** _Tomorrow's (final) prompt: Broken Glass_**


	27. Epilogue: Broken Glass

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** I'll skip the author note for now. See you at the end of the chapter!

 **Warning:** Jane in a bad shape deserves his own warning. Anything else would be giving the game away.

* * *

 **Epilogue - Broken Glass**

He escapes six times from police custody before they give up, assign him an armed escort and let him stay in the hospital. Soon after that she gets out of surgery, and he already paid upfront to give her a room of her own so Abbott takes charge, organises guards and rounds, effectively shutting him inside.

Not that he would try to leave her anyway. She's here, so he's here, there isn't any other place he plans to be.

Doctors sometimes fuss over him.

"Mister Jane, you have to eat something, take care of yourself. I understand you are in police custody, but sitting here unmoving... It's not healthy. It won't help her."

He doesn't really care about all this, but they insist, so he eats what they put in front of him, and washes himself when they remind him to do so, and then comes back by her side as quickly as possible.

Then they start saying other things too, some things about _blood loss_ and _coma_ and _uncertainty_ , but there's ringing in his ears and it's like someone pushed their mute button, he can only make out their mouths moving – and he isn't interested in trying to read their lips, so he turns back to her and ignores them, and soon enough they give up and go away.

She's not waking up yet.

Days and nights blend into each other. Once or twice he climbs in bed with her, holding her carefully against him, hiding his face in her neck, trying to move as little as possible so as not to hurt her. Other times, he just sleeps sitting on his chair, curling his head and shoulders against her side, arm thrown over her thigh, making sure her hand is buried in his hair because he knows how much she likes that, and if she wakes up before him she'll have something familiar to tug on.

Most of the time though, he doesn't sleep at all.

One day, Tommy Lisbon and his daughter are there.

"This is all your fault!" yells Tommy, punching him in the jaw, and his head hits the wall before he crumples on the floor.

"Dad!" shrieks Annie, trying to hold him back – but it's no use, and the officers are there just in time to stop him from kicking his ribs.

"You did this to her, you bastard! You did!" he yells as he's taken away, and he just gets up, picks up his chair, puts it back where it was and sits, taking her hand in his again.

"Are you pressing charges, sir?" ask the officers, and he stares at them in confusion, because _angry grieving brothers_ , and they go away.

On another day, he meets Stan and Jimmy Lisbon.

"Sorry about Tommy," says one of them, the oldest – probably Stan, he didn't pay attention when they introduced themselves. "We know you've been here all along with her, that you tried to help. It's just – she's our sister, you know?

\- She practically raised us," says the other one, voice choked with emotion. "It's hard, seeing her like that."

And he nods, because they're right, it's hard. So hard.

"So – how long have you two been together?"

And he's not sure what to say because the right answer could be _only three days_ or _more than ten years_ or _since she came out of surgery_ or _not long enough_ or _that doesn't matter because I'll stay by her side from now on, forever and as long as she'll have me_.

Some days, J.J. comes to visit.

"How is Miss Lisbon?" he asks from the doorway, as if he doesn't dare come in.

"Sleeping," he answers, voice barely loud enough to be heard.

The man takes a few steps inside, swaying from one foot to the other.

"I'd like to help," he says, still standing. "I came back early from D.C. at the FBI's request. Did you talk to a lawyer already?

\- I don't need a lawyer," he answers, eyes trailing on her features smoothen by slumber.

LaRoche stays silent for a moment, watching him carefully.

"You're a mess, Patrick," he says. "Let me take care of this."

Then he leaves, and the room is quiet again.

Not long after that, a lawyer comes over to hassle him.

"I don't need a lawyer," he repeats, and turns his back on the woman who's still standing in the hallway.

"Mister Jane," she says, and she steps inside, close the door behind her. "I don't think you understand what's going to happen to you.

\- I don't care.

\- I think you do," she says. "Obviously you want to stay here with Miss Lisbon. I can help with that."

And for the first time he turns and looks at her. No words – just waiting. The lawyer fidgets before sitting in the chair on the other side of the bed.

"Most of the charges against you won't stick," she says. "There's not enough proof, there's contradictory statements of witnesses, and seeing you right now, I'm pretty sure we could plead –

\- I don't care about that," he interrupts. "Tell me how I can stay here with Teresa."

The woman opens her mouth, then closes it.

"Give me a list of names, people I can talk to. People on your side."

So he does, and the lawyer goes away again.

Most of the time, they're alone. Tommy never came back after that first time, Stan and Jimmy had to go back to Chicago, and Annie came back once, but didn't stay long. Or maybe she did. He doesn't pay much attention to what goes around him if it doesn't concern her.

He talks to her.

"Hey. Remember that island we talked about? With the sun, the beach, the warm weather... Today would be a good day to wake up so we can go, don't you think? We could take a walk in the sand, and in the evening we could go dancing..."

Sometimes, though – sometimes he's angry.

" _How can you do that to me!_ You made me promise not to leave you behind, and I'm still here, _right here_ by your side! How can you just – slip away like that! _You can't do that!_ You can't!"

But it's never long before his anger dissolves into grief and sadness and pain, and he ends up crying against her side, heart wrenching sobs coming from deep in his guts.

"Please, Teresa, _please_ just wake up. Just wake up. Don't leave me alone here. I can't do this without you."

One day, Cho shows up.

"I'm out on bail," he says curtly in answer to his questing glance.

He pulls another chair near her bed and sits facing them – and stays silent because this is Cho, and Cho isn't a talkative one, not with his mouth anyway. So they sit quietly, each of them holding one of her hands, until Cho gets up again and looks at him for a long time, patting his back once before turning away and leaving.

And Cho may not talk a lot with his mouth, but he does with his body, and the rigid line of his shoulder screams of disapproval and anger and grief and pain and "I blame you and also me but mostly you and I wish we weren't friends so I could hurt you badly but you're so obviously in pain it wouldn't be worth it anyway".

Another day, it's Rigsby and Van Pelt.

"Your lawyer got us out," says Rigsby. "Said the charges were bogus, they couldn't prove anything. Thank you.

\- I didn't do anything," he mutters, reaching out to brush a lock of hair out of her face.

He sees them exchange a glance from the corner of his eye.

"LaRoche told me you found a flash-drive at Bertram's place," says Van Pelt. "Do you still have it?"

He's not listening – she moved her fingers. Just a bit, just a tiny squeeze, but she moved and he focuses all his attention on her now, willing her to wake up.

"Jane?" comes the persistent call.

"What?" he gripes.

"The flash-drive?

\- What flash-drive?

\- The one you found at Bertram's.

\- What about Bertram?"

He hears her getting angry behind him – and he doesn't care, because he tried squeezing too _and she squeezed back_.

"Jane, sign this," says Rigsby firmly, a hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly there's paper and a pen in his hand, and there's a line there about permission to retrieve his personal effects from the police department, and he signs away without a care in the world – he doesn't have time for this.

She's still not waking up.

Sometimes he gets visit from law enforcement.

"The _Powers That Be_ decided to offer you a _deal_ ," says Abbott, voice oozing with the kind of disgust one could expect from a man having walked into dog poo. "With all the charges pending against you, you're looking at twenty to life. _But_ – if you agree to serve as a consultant for at least five years with the FBI, that can all go away. You will remain on federal parole, which may be revoked at any –

\- What about Teresa?" he interrupts, frowning. "Is she part of that deal, too?

\- Of course not.

\- Why is that?"

Abbott looks at him as if he's missing something obvious.

"Jane. Didn't anyone told you? The chances of her waking up aren't good enough," he says neutrally, one eyebrow raised.

He glares.

"Leave," he says roughly. "She doesn't need to hear your crap.

\- Are you sure about this?" asks Abbott, getting up. "You could end up regretting it, you know.

\- Out!" he growls.

"Very well."

The man stops in the doorway, turning back what probably passes for a compassionate stance in his hard-nosed books.

"It's a shame for Lisbon," he says, with some hints of sadness. "She was a good agent."

The past tense in his sentence makes his heart skip a beat. His hands grip the sheets too tightly, crinkling the fabric.

"Go to Hell, Abbott!" he yells, features contorted in fury. " _Take a toothbrush_ ," he adds in misery, hiding his tears on her stomach.

Some other times, the visit he gets is unexpected.

"You didn't call me," says Hightower, half-sympathetic, half-teasingly.

"I was a little busy," he mutters.

She sits facing him, watching him for a while.

"How are you holding up?" she asks softly.

He shrugs. Never takes his eyes off her face – her eyes are moving behind the lids.

"I heard your lawyer was tearing up the DA's prosecutors already, and they didn't even start court," she smiles. "You chose a good one. The FBI is getting nervous.

\- I didn't choose her."

He wonders what she's dreaming about. The sides of her lips are quirking up.

"She'll wake up, Patrick," says Hightower after a long moment. "Lisbon has always been a strong one. Don't you worry."

And he nods, choked by emotion and tears again and _sweet sweet relief_ not to be the only one to believe in her anymore.

Sometimes he gets waked up by strangers.

"Mister Jane," says the woman. "I'm Agent Kim Fischer with the FBI. May I come in?"

He startles awake – and when he tries to move, he becomes aware that her hand closed in on his hair while he was sleeping. With trembling fingers, he caresses her digits clasped into such a tight grip, and closes his eyes – just so he can, for a brief blissful moment, pretend she's awake and well and they are home somewhere and everything is _fine_.

The FBI agent clears her voice.

" _What_ ," he rasps, viciously wrenched off his daydream.

"The FBI would like to open negotiations with you," she says, watching him with curious eyes. "I'm here to hear your demands.

\- My – demands?" he says, rubbing his eyes, trying to move the less he can so she won't let go of his hair just yet.

"Yes. What will it take to secure your cooperation, hire you as a consultant, and avoid the malicious prosecution and abuse of process lawsuit your lawyer has been threatening us with?"

And – _oh_. This sounds important. He tries to think for a while, but he's been off his game for so long he doesn't know where to begin. His mind is blank, blank, blank. So he closes his eyes, scrunches the lids hard – and thinks of Teresa.

And if he tries to think of what _she_ would ask for, it becomes much, much easier.

"No prosecution for the team," he starts rattling off. "All five of us are free of all charges. Cho gets his bail money back. Job offers, for everyone, with the same benefits than we had with the CBI, taking our years of service into account..."

The list is long and arduous, and he can hear scribbling, she must be taking notes – but his eyes are still closed, and almost all his senses are used to commit the feeling of her fingers gently pulling on his hair to memory forever.

"... and I must work directly with Teresa Lisbon. No Teresa, no deal," he finishes, taking a deep breath.

He hears the agent ruffle paper sheets, get up from her chair.

"Mister Jane," she says with some hesitation. "Not to appear insensitive, but – what happens if Miss Lisbon never wakes up?

\- Then there's no deal," he says firmly, before burying his face in her thigh again and feeling her fingers relax and slip off his head.

It takes a while – not that he would know really, with his screwed up sense of time – before the FBI comes back to see him about this. But when they do, it's to bring a contract – one his lawyer approves before he signs.

Then life goes back to normal again, and the officers standing guard at the door are given the order to evacuate the premise.

After a while, Sam and Pete come to visit.

"I'm sorry about Pepper," says Pete. "I know she meant everything to you.

\- Means," he says harshly. "She _means_ everything to me."

Pete looks startled. Sam is glaring at him.

"She's _not_ dead," he says, face twisting in pain.

"Of course not," answers Sam, squeezing on his shoulder.

"She _will_ wake up," he says again, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Of course she will," she whispers, looking down at him with pity and sadness.

And it's obvious she doesn't believe a word of what she just said to him.

But he doesn't mind, really, even when it's hard to hear. He's happy to wait, happy to endure, happy to be the only one still clinging to this desperate, aching hope – because he doesn't care what they think, doesn't care what they say.

He _knows_ she'll wake up. Sooner or later, _she will_. He just _knows_.

So he waits.

And keeps waiting.

And then, one morning, she lets out a deep sigh and he looks at her and her eyes _finally finally finally_ flutter open.

" _Hey_ ," he breathes, kissing her fingers.

* * *

 **So... it's over. It's done. I just hope you'll be okay, and - yeah, I'm gonna miss you. All of you.**

I'm sorry if my ending disappoint some of you. I decided to keep it ambiguous because I honestly can't decide how I want to see it. So I'm leaving it to you. Did she really wake up in that last scene, and are she and Jane finally going to be able to heal together in a world that's going to be good to them? Is she going to pull a Bosco and die after a five minutes conversation? Is she already dead, and is Jane delusional? Whatever you choose, as far as I'm concerned, it's a valid way to see it. My own perception changes constantly anyway.

It's been such an honour writing for this fandom. You people are incredible. Never before did I get such a warm welcome for one of my stories, and if some factors can be attributed to luck and hard work perhaps (most of my previous stories were written in French, and my writing style changed _a lot_ since last time I published something), I still get the feeling you bunch are an amazing lot - responsive, driven, helpful enough to point out mistakes and respectful enough to do it without insults... Honestly, I feel blessed. Thank you for reading my story, and I hope to be able to see you soon on a new one.

Cheers!  
Leaf


	28. Alternative Epilogue: Broken Glass

****_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway._****

 **AN:** It's Thanksgiving in the United States, and while I'm not from the US, I have a lot to be grateful for so I'll happily borrow your tradition this year because two of those things relate to you (and some of you _are_ American, so I'm not too far off the mark):  
1- I'm grateful for The Mentalist – an amazing show that allowed me to break a writing and publication dry spell of four years, and a fandom that taught me to enjoy my craft again.  
2 - And of course, I'm incredibly grateful for you all readers – for your continued support in October while I was writing this story, even as my Red John showdown was dissolving itself in angst and hard situations, and for your patience with my antics when I had no idea where this was going and was stringing you along while fumbling in the dark. You took a risk reading me, and I considered myself blessed. Thank you.

Many of you felt my ending lacking and hard to bear because of it's openness and hints of disaster. But that ending wasn't the first I planned. I won't go through the reasons I decided to change it, but I acknowledge the fact it was a hard one and may not have been as satisfying as some of you wanted. So here is the original, romantic and sweet ending I had in mind – my Thanksgiving gift to you.

 **Warning:** Enough fluff to rot your teeth! Take note:  this doesn't follow the last one, it replaces it. Enjoy, peeps.

* * *

 **Alternative Epilogue**  
 **Broken Glass**

She wakes up to slow beeping and a pervasive smell of ammoniac.

The first deep breath she takes is painful – as if her lungs and the muscles of her chest weren't used to working on their own anymore. Her eyelids feel glued together and crusty with sleep, and once she opens them, she finds herself blinded by the weak light of rising dawn coming from the window on her left.

Then she realises her fingers are twined with soft strands of hair, down near her thigh. She's suddenly grateful for the slight angle in which her mattress is propped, as it allows her to get a better look at her surroundings without the fuss involved in trying to get up – something which she's pretty sure she couldn't do on her own right now. And she usually isn't much of a romantic, even a closet one – but what she sees there melts her heart.

Patrick is sleeping against her side.

Well, half-sprawled against her side would be a better description – his legs are still dangling from the chair he's sitting on, and the position in which he sleeps can't be comfortable at all. But he's warm against her, one arm thrown around her leg, the other one propped as a stand for her own – and she realises then how desperate he must have been for a touch if he resorted to holding her hand to his head like that, even in sleep.

Especially in sleep.

Moving is hard – like trying to swim in jelly. But with painful focus and determination, she's able to run small circles against his temple with the tip of her thumb. And slowly, slowly, she hears his breathing change, becoming quick and shallow, until she can feel him moving slightly under her palm.

She smiles, just a small quirk of lips, and keeps her eyes opened – keeps them on him.

She knows he's fully awake when he stops moving at all, stops breathing even – but his fingers tighten trembling on her wrist, and she lets her hand slip from his hair to his palm, then squeezes as hard as she can.

Which admittedly isn't that hard – but is enough to make Patrick's breath hitch and start again with a rough sob.

He still isn't moving.

" _Hey_ ," she tries to say.

And it sounds more like a click of lips followed by a whine, but it does the trick – because he raises his face to hers so quickly she hears a snap in his neck, and _God_ that must have been painful.

"You're awake!" he says with a smile eating half of his face, eyes shining bright with unshed tears, and voice hoarse with hope and desperation and _sweet sweet relief_.

She longs to feel his arms around her, but settles for squeezing his hand again – and leaning in his palm when he reaches for her cheek.

"Water?" she tries to say, unsure at first if he understands the words coming out of her dry lips – but then he nods and kisses her fingers.

"I'll get you some ice, just – stay there, alright? Stay awake, wait for me."

She blinks in stead of a nod, and he runs out of the room, coming back so quickly she barely has time to string two thoughts together.

"Teresa?" he says, a mass of quivering anxiety.

"Mhm," she answers, and he breathes out relief again – as if letting her out of his sight would have been enough to make her disappear.

 _But that must have been what he thought was really going to happen._

The ice is cold on her lips, colder still on her tongue – but his fingers linger near her mouth and it's a pleasure to find them warm when she sucks on them lightly, teasing, to give him proof of life. He chuckles.

"What happened?" she asks, voice rough with disuse but finally understandable.

"You don't remember?

\- I was shot," she says, frowning. "Then – "

She racks her memory to try and make sense of the jumbled mess of information flooding her mind.

"Then you – in a _sarong?_ That can't be right."

His chuckle becomes a full-blown laugh, one oozing relief and happiness and a bit of desperation still. And she raises a shaking, unstable hand to his cheek, one in which he leans in turn as he calms down, traces of happiness still obvious on his features – because they need the connection, they need the closeness, anything to renew the bond between them. Anything to make sure each of them is alive and well and _healing_ – slowly, but healing nonetheless.

Mind _and_ body _and_ spirit, she hopes.

They both jump in barely concealed panic when a sound of glass crashing outside the room breaks the silence – and laugh, out of breath, clinging to each other's hands.

Then a nurse comes barging in, and panic flares up again.

They're both such a mess.

 _It'll take time._

"Oh, miss Lisbon, you're awake!" says the Hispanic woman, smiling at her. "That's very good, I'll call for a doctor to see you. Mister Jane, you'll have to wait outside now, we need to do some tests.

\- Can't he stay?" she pleads, unwilling to break contact just yet.

"I'm sorry, it's policy," the woman says, compassion seeping in her smile.

" _Policy_ ," she mutters, and Patrick chuckles softly, eyes brimming with ill-concealed laughter.

She frowns at him, but he shakes his head and kisses her fingers.

"You reminded me of something. I'll explain later," he says, then gets up and releases her hand reluctantly. "When can I come back?

\- In fifteen minutes," says the nurse, watching over them fondly. "Don't worry, I'll stay here and watch over her until you're back, as usual.

\- Thank you, Conchita."

The woman waves him away, and he kisses her forehead before leaving the room – not too far, she can see him lurking in the hallway not ten feet from the door. She smiles.

"You are _very_ lucky," says the nurse as she takes her vitals. "If you had a weaker constitution, you would have died. You nearly did – with all the blood you lost, we had to keep you on life support and artificial coma to give your body a chance to heal."

She shivers – thinking of Bosco, thinking of his will to live and his ultimate fate.

"Am I going to survive this?" she asks quietly, with a glance toward the anxious form of Patrick behind the door.

"You should," says the nurse. "Open your mouth now, my dear."

The tests take longer than fifteen minutes, of course – but halfway though Patrick comes back, and his presence at her bedside makes the poking and prodding surprisingly bearable. Then the nurse leaves and they're alone again.

They spend a few more quiet minutes mapping each other's features with their eyes and, in his case, with the fingers he trails slowly over her face, neck and arms.

"You killed him," she says when the silence becomes suffocating.

"I did," he nods.

"Good," she whispers. "Why didn't they lock you up?

\- I escaped," he grins.

She stares.

"Repeatedly," he admits. "Then they just stopped trying to keep me away from you.

\- Are they coming to get you now?" she asks, voice rough – finding herself choked by emotion.

"No," he says softly. "I made a deal with Abbott.

\- A _deal?_

\- Five years working for the FBI. I'll remain on parole until the contract is done, but at the end of it, they'll drop all charges."

He kisses her hand again, eyes watchful and intense – and she knows there's more to this story, but for the life of her she can't begin to guess what. It's so – _out of character_ for him to allow himself under someone else's thumb.

"Why did you agree to this? It's not like you at all."

He swallows – she can see his throat bobbing up and down.

"I don't care what happens to me," he says. "But _you?_ If I let them prosecute me, they would throw you in prison as accessory for murder. I couldn't let that happen, so I – I begged Abbott for a deal. With the SCU's track records, he was only too happy to agree.

\- Damnit, Patrick," she whispers, hanging on his hand tightly.

"It's alright," he grins – a frail, overwhelmed thing, miles away from his usual one. "I don't mind. It'll be fun, they have cool toys and I'm sure I can convince Abbott to give me a couch. We talked while you were – out of it. He's not as bad as he makes himself to be."

She opens her mouth, closes it – and closes her eyes too, frowning deeply.

 _God, I can't believe he would do something like that._

Then she sighs, looking at him again – taking in his tired, shining eyes, the lingering traces of desperation in the slant of his mouth and a bruise she didn't notice before on his right cheekbone.

 _But that's the whole point, isn't it? Of course he would._

"Hey," he says, softly interrupting her thought process. "Partners, remember? You don't owe me anything. I'm the one who messed up in the first place, pulled you under. It was the least I could do. Let's – let's just call it even, okay?"

 _Even? Are you mad? I owe you so much, and one day I'll find a way to make it up to you._

"What happened to your cheek?" she asks instead – hoping to distract him from reading her thoughts on her face.

"This?" he asks, raising his eyebrows and pointing at the bruise. "It's nothing – a, er, a gift from your brother Tommy.

\- _What?_

\- He wasn't very happy with me," he says ruefully. "Told me I should have stayed with you and called the EMTs as soon as you got shot.

\- That's stupid," she says, frowning. "You didn't _have_ a phone! I don't even know how you got hold of one.

\- McAllister's," he says, swallowing. "But he's right – I should have called as soon as I picked it up. Instead I waited until I was back in the chapel and – you nearly died. _Because of me._

\- _Shut up!_ " she says fiercely. "That's not true – you saved my life, Patrick! _Saved me_. We both did what we had to do. Don't you _dare_ fall back into one of your self-loathing, self-pitying episodes! If you do, I'll – I'll kick your ass so hard you'll feel it right up to that Memory Palace of yours!"

He blinks a few times, stunned by her outburst.

"Let's just call it even, okay?" she adds more quietly, throwing back his own words at him.

He nods, stroking her cheek with his thumb – then grins.

"Self-loathing, self- _pitying_ episode? _Really_ , Teresa? Nice to finally know what you thing of me, after all those years spent working together..."

She tries to glare, but of course the half-smile sticking to her lips belies her attempt.

"Come here," she says instead, patting the bed cover. "Hold me?"

He suddenly looks overwhelmed again, and she isn't quite sure why – until foggy memories of making the same request while lying on a cold, hard floor comes to mind. But he obeys, removing his shoes and carefully sitting near her on the bed, sliding by her side in a way that gives her the feeling it's not the first time he's doing this.

Then her thought process comes to a halt, because he's cradling her against his chest and she can hear his strong, calm heartbeat just under her ear.

 _I'll never tire of this._

"I love you," he says, half-sigh, half-whine. "Don't do this to me, ever again. Please?

\- I'll try not to," she whispers, words muffled in his shirt – fingers dancing on his back, spelling unsaid words of devotion.

She feels her mind becoming sluggish again, overcome by tiredness – and while she knows the need to rest is normal in recovery, she can't help but feel a bit helpless and annoyed with herself. Sleeping isn't what she wants right now. But Patrick's breathing is slowing too, and as she entwines their legs together, she comes back on her position.

Maybe a bit of sleep wouldn't be so bad, after all.

For both of them.

They wake up some hours later, when the same nurse as earlier – _Conchita_ , says Patrick – comes to check on her.

"Mister Jane, what are you doing? I've already told you not to disturb her sleep!

\- He wasn't," she mumbles, yawning. "His heartbeat is comforting.

\- See? I'm her own personal lullaby," he grins, unmoving.

"You're her own personal _something_ all right," the woman says, smiling as she scolds him. "Better get out of bed now, there's a gentleman outside coming to see you.

\- Me?" he asks, frowning.

"Both of you, if I understood well."

The nurse leaves. He gets up, and she rubs her eyes before fumbling around the edge of the bed until she finds the controls. If she is to receive visitors, she'll need to stay awake long enough to _greet_ them.

"I bet it's Abbott," he says, stretching his back and slipping his feet in his previously discarded shoes.

"Abbott? Why?

\- I may have, ah, _hinted_ that with the CBI closed, you needed a job and that my collaboration with the FBI would be – let's say _healthier_ if you were around," he grins, rubbing the back of his neck.

She frowns.

"You're free to refuse, of course," he says, correctly interpreting her expression. "But – I'm hoping you won't," he adds softly. "It's a long way from Austin to Sacramento, and I love working with you. I'd miss you if you weren't around.

\- You love it when I'm there to clean up your messes, you mean," she says, the corner of her lips quirking up – and her eyes saying _I'd miss you too_.

"But Teresa, don't you see? _That_ wouldn't be your job anymore," he says, suddenly serious. "We'd be partners. _Equals_. It would be great, don't you think?

\- That's – actually, that sounds pretty fun," she smiles. "An in on your cons?

\- Of course," he grins. "Let's see what kind of trouble we can make."

And she grins back, because of course they might get in trouble again – Patrick is who he is, and she's who she is – but as long as they're together, from now on, they'll be fine.

 _They'll be fine._

* * *

 **So... this is it. For real this time.**

I didn't expect the sheer enjoyment I'd get from writing this specific version of these characters again – it was like meeting cherished old friends after years without seeing them. So thank you for that, peeps. It was fun.

See you on the next one! It shouldn't be too long in coming now.


End file.
